Trials
by The Abbot of Beregost
Summary: The continuing adventures of everyone's favorite marine, Gunny Sims. Starts at Resistance,and follows him through the rest of Season 2. Updated Chp. 16
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Gunny Sims returns! This will probably end up being a multipart story. Starts with Resistance. Yeah...beware of spoilers. I don't own BSG, because if I did, I'd be rich and talented. Takes place after my 'A Very Bad Day' series. Check my profile, poke around.

Gunny Sims' ribs hurt. They hurt a lot. Since returning from Kobol, he had a lot of aches and pains, but the manpower shortage forced him back on duty with only one day to recover. So, now he watched the Cylon. The Cylon and Tyrol. He had seen the Chief arrested, protested, but he was dragged off. So, he made arrangements for guard duty after he recovered. _I mean, looking out for him while he's in there is the least I can do for him, right_? he thought to himself.

Oh, he hadn't seen it coming. And he knew Tyrol wasn't one of them. But still, he was stuck in that cell. The Old Man on the operating table, Valeri a Cylon...it was all too much for him. So, he sat back, watched, and thought of Callie. Tyrol sat as far away from Sharon as he could. Sims didn't know what to think of her- she looked wretched and pathetic. She wept, rocking back and forth, watching the chief. Galen looked shocked, angry. No one had dressed his wound. The Colonel had been hitting the bottle pretty hard, and when he did he got real mean. When he was sober Tigh was a great leader, had the respect of his men. When he was drunk...well, that's another story. He didn't want to think about one of the men he respected -hell, considered one of his own- being beaten while in shackles by his commander, who he also respected. It didn't sit right.

Callie. He thought of Callie. She had turned out fine, Cottle had given her the all clear, but she wasn't okay. Watching Tyrol being dragged away had been hard on her. He didn't like to see her like that, angry. He knew she felt powerless, watched her rage. She was on his mind a lot. The raptor ride had been quiet. She had fallen asleep in his arms, curled up tight against his bloody body armor. He felt her breathe, enjoyed knowing her arms were around him, holding him tight even if he couldn't feel it. The landing had woken up, and he had stared at beautiful brown eyes for a full second. She was happy, she felt secure...until she saw the boys from 2 Mountain waiting for the chief. She was confused, angry, pushed him away. He shook his head- it's not like he was in on it.

Valeri had been staring at the chief for hours, eyes pleading, sad. She stunk to the high heavens, curled up in a ball. It was hard not to have sympathy for her. He had danced with her at the Colonial Day celebration, heard her complain in the barracks, lived with and beside her for years. He ate near her, gone on exercise with her. Saw her in gym from time to time. The pilots' bunks were right next to the marines'. Even if he didn't consider her a friend, he knew her, and he had trusted her. What had happened? When had he slipped?

"I guess you really must hate me."

It was a statement on her part. The chief didn't even look at her, just stared straight ahead. Said nothing. Sims watched- he had protected her, lied for her, loved her, risked everything for her. And now, she had shot the Old Man. She was a toaster. She continued.

"I don't know whether it makes and difference right now, but I'm really sorry you got pulled into this."

_Machines don't have feelings_, Sims told himself. _She can't feel sorry._

"What we had..." she started, pleading, reaching out to him, tear tracking down her face.

"...was nothing," Tyrol finished, staring at the floor. His voice was dead.

"Nothing. You're a machine, I'm not."

She sniffled, stroking her face with one hand, voice cracking a little.

"Well, whatever I am, I know what I felt."

"Software doesn't have feelings."

"I never meant to hurt you."

A click at the door. She turned to it, eyes wide with fear. The gunny saw her face clearly for the first time, hair sweeping aside with the suddenness of her motion. She had been badly beaten, she had every right to fear any change. Sims turned from them, opened the door. It was Baltar, black bag in hand. He smiled.

"Hey doctor. Glad you're here, can you take a look at the chief's face?" Sims asked quietly.

"Err, ah, yes, gunnery sergeant. Once this is taken care of. Please, don't interfere."

The shorter, bespectacled man took him for a quiet aside.

"Don't worry, everything will be fine. Just...trust me. I'm under orders for this. Stay, make sure...the assassin doesn't kill me. The Chief will never be in any danger. Understood?"

Sims remembered fighting beside Baltar, standing beside him in the last stand. He nodded. He could trust Baltar.

"Private, could you please wait outside?" he announced as the gunny played along.

The other marine gave a 'yessir' and left quickly. She probably wanted a coffee and a smoke, anyways. Baltar entered the cage, and Sims locked it as per procedure. Baltar nodded once, mouthing the words _play along_.

"And how are we this evening?" the doctor asked as he set down his medical bag, opening it and removing a syringe. Sims just watched.

"Whaddya want?" Tyrol asked mechanically, not moving. Valeri fidgeted uneasily in her corner. Baltar tapped the needle, staring at the clear contents.

"I'm here," the doctor replied, "to determine whether you're a Cylon or not. Your arm, please."

"This test doesn't work too well," piped up Valeri as the Chief stood, awkwardly rolling back his jumpsuit sleeve. "You gave ME the green light."

"The test works just fine now."

Baltar circled the man after injecting him, catching him as he fell.

"Chief? Chief?" Valeri called out in increasing distress.

"I just lied to you, Sharon. I covered up your true nature from the rest of the fleet for my own purposes. **Scientific** purposes."

Sims had to smother a giggle at Baltar's hammy acting. He looked at the chief, who was unconscious in Boomer's arms. He didn't look so hot. The gunny was suddenly a little worried. He trusted the doctor- it was probably some alchemical trickery, to go along with his poor display of archvillainy.

"What did you do to him? He's not breathing!"

"No, he's dying right now, Sharon. I CAN save him... if you tell me how many Cylons there are left in the fleet."

"I don't know! Gunny, help him, I'm not getting a pulse!"

She was panicking. Sims bit down on the fear, played the part of the callous marine.

"Hey, another dead toaster is no skin off my back."

"Yes, you DO know. Now, buried somewhere in that thing you call a subconscious, you know. How **many**?"

"I don't know!"

"He doesn't have TIME for this, Sharon! His organs are shutting down. In ten seconds' time, he'll experience COMPLETE BRAINSTEM DEATH! Now, how many?"

She was weeping openly now, trying to do CPR. Sims had uncomfortable memories of Socinus, lying there, the panic...he had to restrain himself. He gritted his teeth. Baltar knelt beside her, lowering his voice from an angry roar to quiet, compassionate whisper.

"Do you love him, Sharon? Only **you** can save him."

She was crying, trying to concentrate on giving breaths through her sobs.

"Ten, nine..."

She dived for his bag, but the shackled slowed her. He kicked it across the cell. Sims was rapt on the drama as it unfolded. What had he done?

"DO YOU **LOVE** HIM, SHARON?" Baltar screamed in her face. She ran her hands through her hairs, weeping.

"Eight! There are eight!"

He rushed to the chief's side, drawing another syringe from his labcoat. Baltar jammed it into the prone man's neck, and Tyrol sucked in a deep breath. Sims breathed a sigh of relief. An gasping sob as Sharon pulled Tyrol's head onto his lap. She stroked his cheek as Baltar stood, face cold again, and nodded at Sims. He unlocked the door, patted the marine on the shoulder, and left.

Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims hadn't smoked since he was sixteen. But there stood, bumming a cigarette off Hernandez. He nodded his thanks to the man. The stress was getting to him.

"What's the word, gunny?"

"Nothing I want to talk about. What's new in the fleet?"

"Idiocy. Complete fraking idiocy."

The older man lit his smoke, handed the lighter to his squad leader, and inhaled before continuing.

"The Colonel sent us out into the fleet to get supplies. We were stretched so thin, we had flyboys leading us."

Sims took a drag, nodding. This was surprising, but he was getting used to it.

"They were fraking rioting. Apparently, some of the guys from Fox Company were on the Gideon. From what I hear, they were assaulting the poor bastards. Maybe twenty fraking civvies trying to mix it up with fully armed marines. Gods! We're not equipped for this BS."

Another drag each.

"So what happened?"

"I was talking to one of the guys on board, after they got back. Apparently, they all heard a shot, and the civvies started screaming and jumping them. So, they started shooting. Four dead, a whackload of wounded. From what the guy said, everyone in the squad heard a shot first, and the crowd flipped out. That's when they started shooting."

"Frack, eh?"

"Oh, and...uhh...got some news for you, off the grapevine."

"Huh?"

"Well, apparently, Callie jumped another crewman for badmouthing the chief."

"Ha!" Sims laughed, "Whoever it was, had it fraking coming. The chief's a good man, and Callie's a good kid. She's fraking nails."

"Heh...yeah. I know you got a soft spot for her, and me and the guys are sitting on it. Don't worry."

"Yeah. Thanks, man. I owe you one."

Sims playfully punched his friend in shoulder, headed back to duty. His mind was on Callie, though. She had taken a swing at someone? There was only one thought on his mind: _That's my girl. _

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

Sims watched Hernandez undo the Chief's shackles as he stood at the ready to transport Boomer.

"Thanks, Doc," he said quietly to the man. "I appreciate it."

"Don't thank me. Thank her."

"Why? What's she got to do with it?"

"Everything. Nothing."

Baltar ran his hand across his upper chest in a daze.

"Love is a strange and wonderful thing, Chief.You be happy you experienced it at all...even if it was with a machine."

Sims looked at the doctor a little cockeyed. He was showing signs of cracking, after all.

"What're they going to do to her, doc?"

"They're setting up a new holding facility...there'll be tests. Mental. Physical."

"Like she's... like she's some kind of lab rat?"

"That's the idea."

Sims shook his head in disgust as he lead his fireteam away, the subdued, shackled Boomer in their center. They were waiting, however. He had to push several enlisted men out of the way with his submachine gun right out of the gate. They screamed imprecations, tried to attack her. The entire situation was making him sick. The way everyone was behaving, the way Sharon was being treated -a toaster she was, but she could still feel pain, and torturing anyone who could feel pain was wrong to him- the whole damn situation. Tyrol was a step behind them, taking his fair share of abuse with some dignity. Sims pitied the man.

He shoved his way through the crowd, until they were almost there. Sims was in the process of shoving back a pilot when the shot rung out. He turned around, to see Callie holding a service pistol. His men were fanned out, holding back the crowd. He abbandoned the pilot with a hard shove into a bulkhead, stripped Callie of the gun. He grabbed her arm gently as the crowd went silent, the fallen Valeri falling back into the chief's arms. Everyone stared. Sims was in shock. Tyrol mumbled the word 'no' over and over again to himself, trying to find a way to help Boomer. The chief and Callie's eyes locked, and for a moment, they exchanged endless communication. Then, he saw only Sharon - not the toaster, not the enemy, just Sharon. The woman he had loved. He mumbled at her, staring her in the eyes as she flopped into his armed. She stared into his woman's eyes one last time.

"I...I love you, chief..." she managed.

And then, she was gone. A bit of blood splattered to the deck, breaking the silence. Tyrol stared directly at Callie as he cradled Valeri's body.

Sims pulled Callie a little closer, gently as he could, and his horrified whisper reached only her ears.

"What have you done...what have you **done**?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Bastards! Callie got ten seconds of airtime. I did the best with what I had.

Callie sat in the brig, staring off into nothingness. Sims slid her food into the cage.

"Good news and bad news, specialist," said the unusually chipper Sims. He was excited at the news, indeed. She just seemed downcast. Callie didn't say anything.

"Well, I'll give you the good news first. You're not being charged with murder."

Callie shook herself free from her trance.

"Really, gunny?"

"Yep."

She smiled, and her bright eyes reached out and found his. The warmth there took him aback.

"Bad news, Callie...bad news is you have been charged with negligent use of a firearm. Thirty days in the hole."

"Aww, frack."

"S'not so bad. I managed to convince Cottle that my wounds aren't healing that great...so at least you'll have company, eh?"

"Ha! Thanks, gunny. I appreciate it. What's the news?"

"Well, the old man is back out and about. He's taken command. Rebels knocked out two marines, sprung the President and Lee, and vanished into the fleet. That's the big news."

"Wow, really? Anyone you know?"

"Hey, just because I wear this uniform doesn't mean I know every frakking marine in the fleet, you know."

"Yeah, I know. How's...how's the chief?"

"He's the reason your sentence got commuted, Callie. He gathered up a bunch of us, and we all vouched for you. The Old Man listened to him first and foremost, though."

"D'you...d'you think he forgives me?"

"I don't know. Looks like it, though."

"Gunny, I wish I could hug you right now."

"Me too, Callie. Me too. But, we'll be spending the next little while together anyways, eh? So, tell me...why dental school?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I have every intention of continuing this story. Here's something to tide you over until the next part...which I have no clue when I'm writing. I also fixed the ballistics issue, but more on that later.

Gunny Sims sat at the desk, filling out paperwork. Callie sighed in the background.

"So, you really have to go? Where to?"

"Yeah, the Old Man needs a guide or two. He's going to chase down the President."

"Really?"

Sims nodded, looked up. Callie sat up in her bunk, brushing away a long strand of hair. Sims had grown to love watching her. Callie's every movement made him smile a quiet smile. Callie on the other hand, did not seem as pleased. Her eyes were wide, staring at his before darting to the deck.

"Do you really have to go?"

"Yeah, sorry. I mean, being here with you is the best duty I've pulled."

"I know. I just wouldn't want to go back there, not for the life of me."

"I hear you, Callie. But that's the **job**."

He placed extra emphasis, almost veneration on the final word. To him, the **job** was the pinnacle of what he did. The ultimate expression of him as a marine. To her, it was danger. Deliberate danger.

"The job."

He nodded.

"I remember seeing you there, watching, on the Astral Queen. You were one of the marines on my raptor. I remember...you looked angry. Not at me, at them. You came to rescue me."

"Uhh..."

He stood walked over to her cell, hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He hadn't known her then. She was just a victim, albeit a cute victim. But in her eyes, it was clear he was turning into a sort of white knight. She stood, walked up to the bars.

"Thanks, Gunny...Craig. You be careful down there, okay?"

He nodded, and they stood staring at each other for a moment. Then, Callie brought up her hand, kissed her fingertips and extended her arm through the bars. Gunny Sims took her wrist gently, gave it a squeeze, and kissed her fingers with a tenderness he usually reserved for a favored firearm. He pulled himself closer to her, other hand closing over hers.

"I will, Callie. I will."

BSGBSGBSGBSG

"How simple could it be? Okay. We're in the north-northwest continent, quadrant c, sector 2, which..."

"Sector four, Chief," corrected Sims. The pilot rolled her eyes, grabbed the paper.

"Oh, for frak's sake, let me see if I can make heads or tails of it."

"Look, I marked the terrain as best I could but we're not... topography's for pansies anyways."

"Shoulda let me do it. At least I'm trained," countered the gunnery sergeant. Being in the cramped raptor was unpleasant. The transport was filled, or so it seemed. Racetrack, her ECO, the commander, Tyrol, Billy and himself were strapped in tight. There was probably room for another two or three people, but the commander had a presence about him. That, and he was built like a bear. He turned his pitted face towards the nervous and queasy looking presidential assistant.

"How you feeling? Diplomatic?"

"I still don't think this is a very good idea, commander. The last time she saw me, she wasn't too happy with me."

"She trusts you, values your counsel. She'll listen to you."

Sims listened in amazement. The old man had the ability to read people like books.

"I doubt that very much. I'm her assistant. She doesn't put any more stock in what I say than--"

Adama held up a hand, cut the young man off.

"She thinks you'll be president one day"

" 'Scuse me?"

"That's what she said to me once, that you reminded her of president Adar when he ran for his first office."

Billy blushed a little, flustered. The commander intimidated him, but at least he seemed friendly. Sims watched with interest.

"I don't really know how to respond to that, sir."

"Don't let it go to your head. Adar was a moron."

_A very backhanded compliment, but a compliment still_, Sims thought to himself. Racetrack yelled over her shoulder, disrupting the conversation.

"This is an intra-atmos entry. You guys buckled in?"

"Yeah!"

Sims gave a thumbs up, and the Chief nodded. They jumped, and Sims could feel the acceleration force his flesh sideways.

"Perimeter's clear. No Cylon presence," Racetrack yelled over the machine's howls of protest at its mistreatment. Billy was the only person who wasn't used to going in hot, and it showed. The commander watched, grinned, fought the gee-forces to slap Billy's arm.

"See? Nothing to worry about. Having good luck already."

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

They trudged through the rain, the commander on point. It felt good to be out of the ship, but Sims hated Kobol. Something deep inside him was bouncing off the walls, screaming that everything was wrong. Galen and Sims took up the rear, rifles sweeping. Then, the old man stopped, signaled that he heard something. The old man tensed, advanced, rifle up. Sims flanked and covered him. He heard the Commander clearly.

"Put down your weapon, Captain."

Slowly, the old man lowered his weapon, and Sims advanced. In a small clearing, rebels hid under tarps like wet dogs. A few criminals from the Astral Queen, Zarek, the President, Starbuck, Helo, and right in front of Adama, Apollo. Sims smiled. The family really was reunited. The commander pulled his son into a bear hug before turning to the president. Sims lowered his own weapon. This was a joyous occasion.

"Commander."

"It's good to see you."

Billy stepped from behind them, wet and shivering.

"M-Madame President."

The president's face lit up, watery eyes wide.

"Billy. Billy, you have no idea what it means to me to have you here."

"It's good to see you too."

Sims was content to look on, watching carefully. The convicts lowered their weapons, looked to Zarek. Sims was surprised to see Helo, however. Where had he been? The old man looked over everyone, walking over to Starbuck and stroking her face gently. Sims and Tyrol smiled, content to simply watch over the reunion. Then, she emerged from behind the tree. Tyrol spotted her first.

"Oh, my gods. Commander? Commander!"

Both he and Sims raised their weapons, drawing beads on the woman in the red jumpsuit.

Boomer.

"She's with us, Commander," Helo called out, palms up. What? Sims had a perfect bead on her head. he couldn't miss if she shot. Why was she here? Why was Helo defending her? She had shot the old man! She was a Cylon!

Adama stared her down, twitching. Sims awaited the command to fire. But, instead, the commander moved faster than his size would have led everyone to believe. A massive, pie-plate sized hand shot out, grabbed Valerii by the throat, choke-slammed her to the ground. _The old was strong,_ Sims noted, _extremely strong for a man who was shot twice. _Sims wasn't terribly surprised, however. He looked up to Adama.

"Commander, no! No!" Starbuck was yelling. Boomer's objections to dying were quickly cut off by the pressure on her windpipe. He said something to her, but Sims couldn't hear. He was aiming at the convicts. Sims strained his ears. The president was speaking. Everyone was crowding around the two.

"Commander. Commander, please don't. We need her."

Tyrol, Sims and Apollo were covering Zarek and his men.

"Commander! Commander, you've got to let her go," implored Helo. "Sir!"

Adama choked, sputtering, clutching his chest. He rolled off Boomer.

"Dad? Dad?"

Lee hugged his father, tried to help him. The convicts backed off, and Helo helped the Cylon to her feet. Sims knew it was going to be a long, long walk to the Tomb of Athena. He watched Boomer curl into Helo's chest, a gesture of the utmost affection. He tried to remind himself that she had shot his commander. But he simply couldn't escape the feeling that she was as human as he was.

Tyrol and Sims patrolled the edge of the clearing, watching everyone and talking in low voices. Both paid particular attention to Boomer. In their minds, she was the largest threat to everyone. Sims listened carefully as they approached through the mud. The chief said nothing, simply stared at her from a distance.

"In cold blood. Not even a trial," the other Sharon muttered to Helo as Sims passed, a look of scorn on her face for the marine. He shook his head, kept moving. Tyrol, however, stopped. Sims turned around to see them staring at one another like deer, wide eyed and awkward. Tyrol spoke first.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Sharon?"

He muttered her name, and the gunny saw the chief's knuckles go white as he clutched his rifle.

"Hello, Chief."

She stood, never breaking eye contact, advancing.

"You know who I am."

Sims didn't like the tone of his voice. She continued advancing on him, and the marine tensed.

"Yes. We haven't met, but..."

She came up to him, staring, then hugged him like he was made of porcelain.

"I remember you. It's good to see you."

She backed off, and Tyrol just stood there, trying to cope. She went back to sitting with Helo, and the two moved on with their patrol. Sims was going to watch her, very, very carefully.

"You should see this!"

Sims grumbled as the Cylon led the way. He was between the President and Adama, carefully keeping an eye on Zarek and his men. As much as he didn't trust Sharon, he trusted them even less. Everyone came up the hill, into a tiny clearing in front of the mouth of a cave.

"Lieutenant Thrace," Roslin called behind her, "I hope you have that arrow handy."

The excitement in her voice was clear, but as soon as the Starbuck's hand moved to the tube on her back, the gunny's instincts were tripped. Something was wrong. Perhaps it was the subtle movement of Boomer for her sleeve, or Zarek's cronies for their waistbands. Sims saw a flash of steel where none should be, and his instincts took over.

First, Sharon drew down on the Commander. Apollo was bringing his gun up, but changed directions suddenly. It was too late, though. Meiers, the convict beside him, was bringing his gun up The bald convict was going for his waistband. Sims fired automatically, reducing the man's head to a wet spray with a three round burst from his rifle. In that instant, he knew that Apollo was probably dead. He caught the motion of a rifle beside him, Tyrol drawing down on Meiers. Apollo would probably die, but Sims was going to try to save the Old Man. He, Tyrol, and Adama were wearing body armor, body armor that would definitely stop the rounds from the derringer the Cylon has somehow gotten her hands on.

Then, it happened.

The Cylon whipped around, superhumanly fast, and emptied all four barrels of her holdout pistol into Meiers. It was impressive shooting, Sims' mind knew, all largely fatal. The first shot hit the convict in the stomach, the second in the sternum, the third in the neck, just above the collarbone. Sims knew all three had hit the spine by the way that Meiers simply flopped to the ground and lay deathly still. None the less, he lined up his sights on the Cylon's head as she pushed the pistol into the Commander's stomach.

He honestly didn't know if he could shoot her before she opened her mouth.

"I need you to know something. I'm Sharon, but I'm a different Sharon. I know who I am. I don't have hidden protocols or programs lying in wait to be activated. I make my own choices. I make my own decisions. And I need you to know this is my choice."

She let go of the gun, other hand in the air. The butt of the pistol face Adama. He stole it away quickly, handed it off to Sims as he advanced to cover her.

"This is one of the old Stallions. It's not military issue. Where the hell'd you get this?"

"It's his," she responded, gesturing at the dying man with her head. Sims knew that he couldn't shoot her, as he stared across his rifle at her. There was too much humanity, too much of the old Sharon in her.

Standing outside of the Tomb of Athena, guarding Boomer, Zarek, Helo, and Billy with Tyrol, he knew that his experiences on Kobol were trials. They were gauntlets to run. They were tests of fury and strength and resolve. To what purpose, he did not know. He didn't believe in the Scriptures, he didn't believe in fate. He simply gritted his teeth, thought of Callie and tried to let his fragile humanity lead him on through yet another trial by fire.

**A/N:** No, a single shot from most firearms won't kill you, unless it hits you in the brain. In fact, even if I put a 10mm round (which is pretty frighteningly large and powerful, unlike the 9mm) through a suspect's heart and utterly destroy the organ, the person still has 10-15 seconds of life left in him, as well as full motor control. A .25 ACP shot (what Meiers appeared to be using) low on the abdomen would neither kill nor incapacitate a person, unless it hit the spine. Even then, the shot would not likely be fatal. For further discussion of terminal ballistics, feel free to email me.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I know, I'm sorry. Stuff came up, including a rather crippling injury to my left hand. No worries, I'm throwing the gunny back into the limelight. There's another chapter or two stacked on this, pending betas and whatnot. Sorry about the length.

Everyone waited with baited breath as Cally walked through the door. They smiled and clapped, proudly displaying the hand-made banner advertising "WELCOME HOME CALLY". She smiled, and Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims smiled an honest smile. He had a soft spot for the deckhand after going so far with her.

Sims lifted the tin cup in a toast to Cally. All the deckhands and a half dozen off-duty marines crowded around her in the machining shop. The banner hung above them as she smiled, clinking glasses of homebrewed vodka with her friends. The other deckhands crowded around the smallish brunette, congradulating her and shaking her hands. Sims, Hernandez, and a few others hung back along a wall, not really fitting in.

Truly, it was good to see her out and about. Suddenly, the party went silent. Tyrol stood in the doorway, glaring. Sims bristled in response, but he knew the Chief well. He didn't understand. Why was he making such a big issue out of this?

Callie stepped forwards, glass extended to him in one hand. An olive branch.

"Chief, I heard how you went to bat for me..."

"Forget it."

"I wanted you to know that..."

He took the cup, filled it himself.

"_Forget it_. I need all the knuckle-draggers I can get."

The party went a little dead after that, and Sims took the opportunity to make a quiet escape. he hugged Cally on the way out, saying nothing. Really, what could he do? His men followed, providing their own commentary.

"Poor girl, she really looks up to chief," muttered Hernandez. "She was pretty good company in the lockup. Made it a hell of a lot less boring to be guarding her rather than some drunk crewmen."

"Yeah, drunk Raptor pilots are the worst," agreed O'Hare. He was Sullivan's replacement, the new lancejack.

Sims nodded, stretching a bit. His ribs were were much better. Someone snickered behind him.

"Wassat, eh?"

"Hernandez was just sayin' that Cally looks up to you a hell of a lot, too. You and her seemed pretty tight back there..."

Sims felt a little heat crawl up his neck. She had held him a bit more closely than usual. Sims smiled to himself. _Not such a bad thing_, he thought, _at least she reciprocates._

"Any other insights, corporal?"

"Juss that maybe you should try to patch things up between her and Tyrol, gunny."

"Maybe I should. Later guys, catch up to you in a bit."

Sims broke off from the group, headed towards the deck. Hearing sounds of a fight, he poked his head in. Helo and Tyrol were slugging it out.

No quicker way to get bit than to get between two fighting dogs, he muttered to himself, and made a hasty escape. Anyways, it wasn't his place to meddle. With a little luck, he could try later. But he didn't have a chance.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **You didn't believe me, did you? Did you? Well, another chapter.

Sims was shaken awake by small hands.

"Hurrrwot?"

His eyes shot open, and there was Cally, wide eyed and worried.

"Gunny, you have to get Tyrol. He's been kidnaped by those Pegasus thugs!"

"How'd that happen?"

Sleep made his tongue thick, but she kept tugging on his arms. He pulled away as she explained. The condition one alarm rung in the distance. He took all the information in quietly, trying to clear his mind. He knew something was off with those Pegasus boys, he knew it.

"Awright, guys," the gunny yelled, shoving his men awake, "let's go! Let's be bad guys!"

BSGBSGBSGBSGBSG

It was always the worst part. Sitting there in the Raptor, suited up, ready- but at the mercy of their pilot, other pilots, missiles, flak...

The Old Man was rock solid to the gunny. But he didn't know how well the Commander's stubbornness would protect him from the Pegasus. So, he sat, taking it on faith. Hernandez, O'Hare, and a new recruit named Connors. Everyone fiddled about. The marines didn't want a fight, but expected to come out of the Raptor hot. Sims looked back, trying to remember the gear that the Pegasus marines had carried. Newer submachine guns, plated body armor. Sims had been woken up briefly to be on deck to greet them. Right after a celebratory drink, he went right back to sleep. And now...now he regretted that. He could have had a few more minutes watching them. His thoughts were broken by Racetrack.

"Pegasus is launching Vipers," she called out, the strain clear in her voice.

"This is some gods-awful game of chicken we're playing here."

"I know," muttered an understandably harried Racetrack, watching the blips on her screen.

Suddenly, the Raptor began to veer and duck wildly.

"What the frak, Racetrack!"

"Gotta duck them, sir. They haven't fired on us, or our escorts."

"S'good news, I suppose."

He was powerless inside the Raptor. He couldn't tell anyone what to do, he couldn't fight, he couldn't hunker down. He just had to wait. He tried to concentrate on the communications between the pilots, but it was a jumbled mess. Pilots were always chatty bitches to marines. All of a sudden, they disengaged. The Galactica's flight pod was clear through the cockpit glass.

"What the frak?"

"We got orders to turn around, Gunny. Both sides are pulling back."

"Great, just frakking great."

BSGBSGBSGBSGBSGBSG

He led his marines in jogs around the flight deck, much to the irritation of the deckhands. But what else could they do? Gunny's men couldn't strip their firearms, they needed them ready. So, he kept them running. Moving. Shouting cadence. Keeping the blood up, adrenaline going.

Cally caught sight of the gunny, yelling at his men as they ran laps around the deck, dodging machinery.

"Gunny! Gunny Sims!"

He looked over at her. Slowing, he ordered Hernandez to keep the other moving.

"Yeah, Cally?"

"Are you...umm...okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Fine. Why?"

"You're keeping your men running in circles."

"Yeah, keeps the heart beating, keeps them in shape, makes the waiting seem shorter."

She looked him right in the eyes.

"Are you okay?"

He looked at his boots. She took her hands in his, thumbs gently rubbing the back of his hands through the heavy gloves as deckhands and marines all looked on.

"I'm fine, Cally, really. Being in a Raptor just nerves me up sometimes."

She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek. Whistles and catcalls rang out from the spectators.

"It's gonna be fine, Craig. Just...bring back my Chief."

_Her chief_. The words rang in his head. He nodded, kissed her forehead gently. He hugged her tight again, and rejoined his men in laps.

It took two hours for the order came down. Stand to and prepare for an assault. The marine squad headed to their battle stations, ready for boarding actions. But Sims couldn't take his mind off Cally and Tyrol. Tyrol was a good friend. He had to get him back. The ship rocked from impacts. It was clear a battle was going on, but it was rare for anyone to tell the marine contingent what was happening. Before he knew it, he was back in the Raptor, heading out.

This time, there were no surprises. No pseudo dogfights. The marines on the other side looked outright belligerent. They hefted their weapons menacingly, shoved the shackled Chief and Helo towards the other marines.

"Have your traitors back, courtesy of Commander Frisk."

"Frisk? Where's Cain?"

"The godsdamn Cylon got loose, killed her and two of my squadmates. Got away somehow."

"Yeah, a damn shame," O'Hare sneered. The marines stared each other down as the prisoners stood, locked between them.

"C'mon, Chief. Let's go," Sims called out, not taking his eyes off his counterpart. Once aboard, Sims and his marines backed into the Raptor, one by one. They took off without incident. Everyone inside the small craft breathed a heavy sigh of relief, before breaking into smiles. Sims slapped the Chief on the shoulder.

"Glad to have you back, man."

Tyrol nodded, clutched his sides.

"You okay? Tommy, take a look at him."

The squad's corpsman moved forwards, began to look over their wounds.

"Looks like they've been beat pretty bad, sir. Prolly each have some cracked ribs. Better get Cottle to take a look at 'em."

Sims nodded, a little concerned. Everyone was alright, though. That's what was important.

They returned to a hero's welcome. All the deckhands crowded around, cheering. The Chief smiled, and Cally gave him a big hug. He smiled at her, then gritted his teeth as Sims and Hernandez hefted him onto their shoulders and paraded him around. The commander was even on hand to witness the event. As soon as Sims saw him, they put the Chief on the ground and saluted. The Commander saluted back, extended his hand. Tyrol took it.

"Glad to have you back, Chief."

"Thank you sir."

"Get yourself cleaned up, take two days leave."

Sims grinned. Deck crew getting leave was like finding a winning ticket to the Sagittaron Planetary Lottery on the ground. Cheers erupted from a triumphant, united deck crew. All the while, Cally held his hand and stared at the Chief.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Another chapter. I'm on a roll, and I'm really trying to make this coherent and whatnot. For those persons not familiar with military organization, a fireteam is about four men, a section two or three fireteams, a platoon two or more sections, and a company up to 300 men - that is, six platoons of fifty men apiece, which we will see is not the case...

Sims' knuckles rapped sharply against the bulkhead.

"In!"

He stepped through the open door and into Colonel Tigh's office. Tigh appeared to be trapped in a prison of paperwork. The older man looked up, looking a little surprised.

"What a frakked up situation. We barely have enough paper to go around, so once Bill is done reading them, they'll be recycled. Frak."

Sims simply stood at parade rest, saying nothing.

"Sit, Gunny, sit."

He sat across from the obviously irate colonel, who resumed writing and barely looked up at him.

"Yessir. Thank you sir."

"Anyways, Gunny, I'm sure you're aware of the Corps' situation."

"Situation, sir? Which one might that be? The fact that we've suffered the heaviest losses to date of the total fleet population, or that we're desperately short of materiel?"

"The personnel one, Gunny. Don't be a smartass."

"Yes, sir. Sorry sir."

"Specifically, I'm stuck trying to piece together the organization. There's about five hundred Marines left in the fleet now. Three hundred and forty-three are on Pegasus, under Frisk's command. Not our problem, by and large. However, we're stuck with less than a hundred leathernecks."

"Are we recruiting, sir?"

"Yeah, Gunny, but that's not what we're here to talk about. Part of the reason I'm doing more paperwork than actually dealing with problems is that I don't have any frakking command structure anymore. We have a shorthanded company, and the commissioned ranks are gutted. You're basically leading a platoon of men by yourself. First Lieutenant Conal and Master Gunny Smith were lost in the Kobol clusterfrag. During the boarding, we lost about four corporals and a sergeant. So, I'm stuck either moving people up and having single-man fireteams, or having huge gaps in my command. I've got a half-staff of officers, and that needs to be fixed."

"Yessir. How does this involve me?"

"I'm offering you a promotion to Lieutenant."

"I'm sorry sir, but I already hold that position, if not the rank. Just up my pay."

The colonel cracked a grin, continuing to write.

"Fine, Gunny. I know you don't want to leave your men. Oh, who are they by the way?"

"C Platoon, sir. Two sections and change. I'm serving the sergeant capacity for one since we lost Sullivan."

Tigh finally looked up, cocked an eyebrow.

"Sullivan? Wasn't he a lance corporal?"

"Yessir. But he doubled up as a section sergeant."

"Frak."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Go ahead, Gunny."

"Sir, even if we recruit, we don't have a drill instructor, a place to train them, or the materiel to equip them."

"We're working on that, Gunny. I'll keep you posted as best I can."

"Are we going to fold into the Pegasus contingent, sir?"

"Damn no! The 10th Guard are fine on their own. They absorbed the colors of a half dozen units already. Is that all, Gunny?"

"Yessir. Thank you, sir."

"Dismissed."

**BSGBSGBSGBSGBSGBSG**

"Why, Cally. I didn't expect you here, really," Sims said, cracking a grin. He damn well knew she was going to be in the Rising Star's observation deck. Jammer had said as much, hinting to the Marine that she was going to be there. He was obviously taking a great deal of enjoyment from watching the two of them awkwardly step through a romance.

Cally smiled shyly. She wore what Sims took to be her flashiest civvies that weren't a dress. She plopped into the seat beside him. Putting her hand on his, she leaned in, and grinned a clearly tipsy grin.

"Have you been drinking, Specialist?"

"A little, Gunny. Just a little. Courage before the first actual date and all that."

"Oh, so it's a date now?"

"Unless you want to count me being locked up or us being chased by toasters."

"Not really, no. Even though you have to admit that sleeping under the stars was kinda nice..."

Cally gave him a playful punch in the shoulder, pulled herself closer.

"So, Gunny...why the Marines?"

**Further A/N**: I know, I'm a right teasing bastard. But I'm also trying to set up a storyline parallel to the show's. Yes, everyone likes naval and airforce drama, but what about the Marines, who seem to be effectively redshirts? Deck crew, who get the odd moment? I mean, I love the show, but I grimace at the portrayal of the Marines.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Brief chapter before the next one. I've got another on deck, waiting to be betaed. No worries, everyone!

Two lines of men and women stood rigidly at what they believed to be attention some two odd weeks later.

"Well, you're a fine lot of maggots."

Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims looked over the motley bunch of civilians trying to enlist as Marines, then at his newly promoted squad leader.

"Best of luck with them, Hernandez. You're gonna need it."

He shook his head, walked out of the bunkroom. Hernandez was yelling at the new recruits, trying to get them squared away properly for the third time. For some reason, none of them quite could stow their gear right. Sims had decided to take a look at the recruits, and regretted it. Now, he was on his way to meet with Colonel Tigh about some leave.

"Gunny!"

Sims whipped around, and saw his corpsman jogging to catch up to him.

"What's the news, Tommy?"

"Message from your girl, firstly," he said with a gasp.

"Thanks. What else you got?"

"Hadrian's after your ass with a hook on a pole for being offered a promotion instead of you. She's on the warpath."

"Gods, great. Anything else?"

"Not much. Are you on duty?"

"Two hours before I got police patrols."

"Which ship?"

"The old space park."

"Okay. See you there, Gunny. Try to duck Hadrian!"

The medic continued on his way, taking off down a fork in the corridor. Sims looked around, and sat down atop a small pile of crates. He opened the note.

_Dear Craig,_

_I had a great time yesterday. Come by the flight deck, we can arrange something else._

_Cally_

Sims grinned. Wondering what she had in mind, he ambled down the corridors, nodding to himself. Despite hating cop duty- he was a Colonial Marine, not a police officer- he at least had something to look forwards to.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Mad spoilers for Sacrifice. Also, one four letter word. You've been warned. Once again, poor Gunny Sims find himself in a messed-up situation.

"What?"

Sims shook his head. Cloud 9's NCO dive was alive with motion as the enlisted men and women of the fleet unwound.

"O'Hare, he can't hear you."

Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims sat at table with O'Hare, two Pegasus marines, and three bombardiers-turned-fire-control-officers. They tried to yell at each other over the booming music, but had quickly found out that the bombardiers were clearly deaf from handling ship's ordnance all day. Then, suddenly, the music stopped and their yells carried with alarming volume. The DJ's voice was a little strangled.

"Umm...could any Marines in the house come to the bar?"

Sims looked at the other three Marines. There was an unspoken agreement, and they were walking towards the bar without a word. Sims leaned over the counter.

"What's the problem?" he asked. The bartender pointed mutely at the phone. He picked up the receiver. The music started again, at a lower volume.

"Gunny Sims here."

"Gunny! Good, just the man I was looking for."

"What's the problem, Colonel?"

"We've got a hostage situation two decks up from you. Meet up with...Captain Thrace. She's in charge of containment."

"Captain Thrace, sir?"

"You heard me, Marine."

"Sir, what would a viper pilot know about hostage takers?"

"I don't have a clue, gunny."

"Sir, she's the CAG. She's gonna frak this up."

"You have your orders, gunny. As much as I hate to say it, she's ranking officer on board."

"Sir..."

"Dammit, my WIFE is in there! Go and get it done!"

The line went dead. Sims cursed loudly. He gestured for O'Hare and the other marines to follow him. As soon as they were outside the club and beyond the pounding music, Sims stopped the small group.

"Alright. O'Hare, go back to Galactica, get the platoon in here, loaded for bear. See if you can get some tear gas grenades or anything less-than-lethal you can find. You two, got your sidearms?"

A chorus of 'yessir' from the Pegasus marines. They stared at the the gunnery sergeant with ice in their eyes. He nodded, pulling his compact 9mm from the small of his back. He racked the slide, chambering a round.

"Then let's head on up."

"**HOOAH!**" shouted the marines in unison.

**BSGBSGBSGBSGBSG**

She was waiting for them there, looking good in black. Hand on a hip, easy smile, like she was ready for a night on the town. Sims wasn't sure whether he wanted to slap her upside the head or buy her a drink.

"Good to see ya, Gunny. I'm gonna need some of those gorillas you call marines."

"Most of my gorillas are already here, sir. Just trying to cop a little R & R," he replied, trying to keep his voice even. He hoped O'Hare was moving quick. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes one the captain's face.

"Tell me about it. All right, here's what we know. We got an unknown number of shooters at least twenty hostages. And about a ninety-minute window before they start throwing out bodies."

"You got a plan, sir?"

"Lock and load. Let's figure out the rest as we go along. "

That was, without a doubt, the worst plan he could think of.

"Pardon my asking, Captain, but shouldn't we wait for reinforcements?"

"No time."

"What about equipment? Medical standby?"

"I said no time, frak it!"

He sighed. There was nothing he could personally do to avert this trainwreck without a small mutiny. Thrace had the Old Man's ear.

"Yes ma'am."

They sat or kneeled on the floor, surveying the diagram of the lounge. Single entrance and exit. Pressure doors. Starbuck was on the line with Adama.

"I've got two strike teams inbound to you, ETA ten minutes."

Sims nodded. O'Hare and the rest were on the way, along with corpsmen. They didn't know if anyone was injured yet. For all they knew, civilians could be bleeding out on the floor not twenty feet away. Sims could feel the blood pumping. He was ready, even if all he had was his nine.

"We'll have plenty of fire power, so that's good. But I'm concerned with limited access points," said Starbuck.

_Plenty of firepower my ass_, Sims thought to himself, _we don't even have a rifle_._ A half-dozen marines with sidearms against an unknown number of hostage takers, without body armor or proper kit? What was she thinking? _

Adama suddenly put Starbuck on the line as he negotiated with the terrorists. Sims and the other marines tensed, ready. Things were rapidly spiraling out of control. He gestured to one of the marines.

"Get a tech to check to see how much air's left in there," he whispered. The Pegasus marine jogged off. He returned seconds later with a jumpsuited tech, who quietly informed them that all the air feeds and levels were perfectly fine. Sims looked to Starbuck, who was back on the horn with Adama.

"I had one of the Cloud Nine techs double-check the oxygen feed in there. There's nothing wrong with the air."

"Could be a glitch."

"Or maybe someone screwed with one of the CO-2 censors in the bar."

"Lee. Why?"

The other Adama doing something to give them a hand was surprise. Sims almost smiled- for once, the flyboy had done something decent outside the cockpit.

"Maybe he's giving us an opening. If I can get someone inside, get a clear idea of what we're dealing with-"

"Kara, this is a recon mission. Get someone to volunteer. Then you assess the situation. And then get the hell out of there. Do you understand?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, sir."

Sims grumbled. He was, quite obviously, a marine. From his haircut to his combat boots, he was every inch the stereotypical jarhead.

"I'm here to repair the O-2 line."

Sims turned to look at the short man, carrying a heavy case full of tools. Thrace gave him a grin, took his hat. His heart sank.

"Captain, what are you doing?"

He saw an impending disaster coming. She was going to get herself - or worse yet, his men - killed in some hairbrained scheme.

"Volunteering. Let me see that," she said to the maintenance guy, grabbing his toolbox. She opened it, packing a pair of pistols into a compartment.

"Captain Thrace..."

"Dammit Gunny, stow it. I'm the best shot in or out of the cockpit."

"No sir, you're not!" he kept his voice low.

"You're a pilot, and you should remember that. I've been in the Colonial Marines for five years."

"Frak you, I'm going in."

She straightened her hat, walked towards the pressure door. Gunny looked to his men. They nodded at him.

"We're with YOU, sir," one whispered. Sims slapped him on the shoulder.

"Thanks, private. Now, spread out, take cover. Stay close to the door."

The Pegasus marines followed his orders to the tea. Looking over the pair, he was impressed with their resolve and discipline. He stacked up beside the door, out of view, with the two of them behind him. It was the only way to stay concealed.

Sims sweated, waiting, every moment and word seeming like an hour. A terrorist stuck his head out, looking in the opposite direction from Sims. The gunny aimed for the back of the man's head, ready to take him out. But the man ducked back under the half opened door. He heard a female voice tell the captain to 'do her job'. and he breathed a quick sigh of relief. And then, the first gunshot rang over.

"We're hot. Let's go. Get down! Get down!"

Sims dived under the door, coming out low. His scope of view fell down the sights of his gun. He saw a man fire through a glass partition at Kara, who was on the ground. Sims instinctively moved toward her, strafing sideways and firing twice. Both his bullets struck the man with the pistol in the chest, and judging by the way he simply flopped, he had hit something vital. The world moved like it was covered in molasses as the gunny moved toward Kara, ever so slowly (it seemed to him, at any rate) bringing his gun around. Behind him, one of the marines slipped.

Automatic fire chattered off to his right, and he watched the two Pegasus marines jerk to a stop and lay very still. He struggled to bring his gun around. The man with the machine pistol stood in front of a crowd of civilians who stared, dumbfounded. He didn't dare risk a shot. Kara fired once, and simply lay on the ground. Sims didn't know whether she was wounded or not. He grabbed Starbuck by her borrowed jumpsuit shoulder, tried to lift her to her feet.

"We gotta get out! Now! Come on!"

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she struggled to her feet. Sims covered her as best he could pistol sweeping towards a woman who very suddenly was training a pistol on them. But he didn't dare fire with so many people around her. Sims shoved Starbuck towards the exit, with the simple urge to protect at the forefront of his mind.

And suddenly, he was on his back. Fire shot up from just above his left knee, burning into his brain. On automatic, his right leg kicked, pushing Starbuck beneath the door. He risked a shot, above the terrorists' heads, and rolled beneath the closing door himself. A spatter of automatic fire kicked up sparks above him as he just barely made it to safety.

With the adrenaline gone, the pain hit him like a sledgehammer. He gasped and cursed.

"Gods almighty! CORPSMAN!"

He heard running, heavy boots from down the hall as he clutched his leg. He bit down, trying to keep from screaming. Then, Tommy was there.

"Oh, shit sir."

"Gods, Tommy. It feels like hell. How bad is it?"

"Two, maybe three bullet wounds to your lower thigh. You're bleeding pretty bad, sir, but at least it doesn't look like any of the bullets hit bone or an artery."

The corpsman applied layers of gauze to his leg, quickly becoming soaked. A second layer of gauze was on by the time Admiral Adama called. He heard the admiral's voice, concentrated on that instead of the pain. He was dimly aware the Admiral wasn't there.

"What's happening?"

"My cover was blown. I had to move. I'm sorry," Starbuck said in a pained, almost teary whisper.

"Any casualties?

"Two marines. Probably KIA... at least one of the gunmen... and Lee. It was crazy in there, confused.He got hit."

Sims looked over. A tear tracked down her face. Lee had been hit. That sank through the pain. That meant the hostage-takers had little-if anything to lose.

"How bad?"

"I don't know."

Tommy looked at him, put his hands over a third layer of bandages.

"Hold these here, I'm going to put an IV in you."

There was a moment of silence of the radio. When Adama's voice came back, it was strained.

"Stand by. Hold your position. Make no move unless you hear from me."

"It was friendly fire. Lee got hit by friendly fire. I think it was me."

A terrible rage fell over the gunny. There was never an excuse for blue on blue, ever. He wanted of throttle Starbuck, but his hands were slippery with blood and busy holding down the gauze preventing him from bleeding out.The admiral's voice came back over the radio with a positively icy quality to it.

"You have your orders."

Sims was on a stretcher, on his way back to the Raptor when Hernandez saw him. The younger man ran over almost immediately.

"Gunny! Oh, lords, Gunny! Those bastards."

He grabbed Hernandez by the shoulder.

"No prisoners, you hear me?"

"Yessir. Yes sir, I do."

Sims fell into the darkness, finally, as Tommy and some volunteers carried him off.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Another chapter. I know, I'm a monster. I'm trying to catch up to the show. Reviews are much appreciated. Events referenced are further elaborated in **The Job**, **A Very Bad Day**, and of course this story.

Gunny Sims emerged from the fog around him slowly. His eyelids seemed glued together, and the better part of his body was consumed by a dull ache. Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes opened and the ache focused in his thigh.

"Hey there, Gunny."

A soft voice off to his left. He turned his head to face it, sending the world spinning. When he recovered, he saw Cally sitting on a stool in shadows, face haggard. Her arm was attached to...well, his hand. She was holding his hand. He just couldn't feel it. He smiled at her as best her could, looked around. The sickbay was darkened.

"Cally."

The word was thick coming out of his mouth. His tongue was puffy, mouth dry.

"What time is it?"

"Oh dark thirty, Gunny."

"Ohh...how long was I out?"

Another voice, at the foot of his bed.

"Long enough, Gunnery Sergeant. Yeah, I know, you want something to drink. Specialist Lazy, get your boyfriend a cup of water."

Cally stood, blushing. Doc Cottle moved into view. The older man tapped his ashes on the floor.

"Umm..is that sanitary?"

"Well, you bled all over that spot anyways. S'not like anyone's going to be eating off it anytime soon."

"Uhhh...thanks, Cally."

Sims gratefully gulped down the lukewarm water from the paper cup. Cally stared at the floor quietly. The doctor looked at Sims meaningfully, then at Cally.

"She can hear the damage, Doc."

"You cocky-ass marines. I was a hospital corpsman on the Athena, you know. Spent years sewing you frakkers up after you thought you were man enough to beat a toaster in a punch up. You're up there with the worst of them."

"Gee, thanks Doc."

"You're damn lucky you didn't loose your leg, asshole. There were two through-and-throughs, plus I had to dig around to dig out a third bullet. It fractured your tibia. Your tendons sustained a little damage, but nothing a little therapy won't cure. The blood loss nearly killed you, though."

Cally blanched. Sims grimaced, but was having a hard time appreciating the seriousness of the situation.

"So, when will I be on my feet again?"

"Are you insane?"

"Slightly. Just want to get back to my unit."

"Where's Jim? You need to get that IV changed."

Cottle looked around, seeming frustrated.

"Lazy! Go find one of my medics."

Cally looked at Sims. Suddenly, she looked tired.

"Hey! Get a move on, visiting hours are over, Lazy!"

Sims glared as best he could at Cottle. As soon as Cally left his sight, Cottle leaned in. He was deadly serious.

"I didn't want her to hear it, but you're going to be in rough shape for a long time. You'll be damn lucky to just have a limp for the rest of your life. There's nerve damage in your leg, and I can't tell how much without more surgery."

"The way I remember it, Doc, you said about the same about Starbuck's knee. Your words were _'like a smashed melon'_. I watched you say those words."

"Gods dammit, Gunny!"

Cottle cursed under his breath as he was handed an IV bag by a silent corpsman.

"Gunny, I'm putting you under. We'll talk about this some other time. You're damn lucky to have that woman's eye. You're confined to that bed until further notice."

The Gunnery Sergeant's world began to swim before he could form an objection. Cottle pocketed the mysteriously procured needle, and managed to light another cigarette before Sims passed out.

**BSGBSGBSGBSGBSGBSG**

Six days later, Sims was hobbling around on a pair of crutches with a great deal of difficulty and pain. His knee was stitched up and in a cast. Part of his hobbling came from sheer stubbornness, the rest from the drive to get back to his men as soon as possible. He watched Cally wince as he unsteadily threw his bulk around, chasing after him and picking him up when he fell.

His first day out of bed was largely spent experimentally careening around the decks, or in the gym with his men. Cally even took a day off repairs and salvage to give him a hand. At the end of the day, he thanked her with a meal in the same lounge where he was shot. They both wore civvies- Sims in a black dress shirt and black jeans, Cally in a blue dress. The meal was quiet.

"Gunny, I'm worried about you."

"Why's that, dear?"

"You're pushing yourself too hard. You're gonna frak up your leg."

"I'll be fine, Cally. Don't worry."

"So...so...this is where they shot my man."

"I'm _your man_ now?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. It was well known they were seeing each other. She smiled, eyes sparkling. He reached across the table for her hands.

"Don't be a smartass. You know what I mean."

She clutched his big, scarred hands in hers.

"Yes, dear. I'll be careful."

**BSGBSGBSGBSGBSG**

He stroked her hair as her head rose and fell with the pattern of his breathing. Her head rested on his chest after a long night. He smiled, shifted a bit.

"Cally."

She stirred.

"Specialist Lazy."

She cracked one eye open.

"I should slap you, Craig."

"But that would just get me excited. Anyways, you're on duty in a half hour."

"Oh. Thanks for getting me up. It was a wonderful night, Gunny."

His nickname had stuck. For the life of him, he couldn't get her to use his first name again. She stretched a little, muscles taut against his. She pulled away his sheet, wrapping it around herself and padding off with a little wave.

"See you later, Cally."

"See you soon."

Sims stretched in his bunk. He was off the duty roster, though he had a mountain of paperwork to help the Colonel with. Tigh had wasted no time getting his help with that. He worked at it steadily for a few hours in the mess hall, not actually having an office to work in. Suddenly, the duty phone began to ring. Sims cursed as he dived and hobbled for it.

"Gunny Sims."

"Tigh here. Get your dress uniform on and report to the Flight Deck."

"Sir?"

"Just do it, marine."

"Yessir."

They were waiting for him. The eighty off-duty marines, ten marine NCOs, and two marine officers at parade rest. Also in attendance was Deck Crew Five, Captain Thrace, Colonel Tigh, and the thirty five man recruit group. Tigh stood on the podium, with the company colors behind him. He beckoned to a folding chair as Hadrian barked,

"Atten-HUT!"

They snapped to attention, and the Colonel waited patiently for Sims to get to his seat. Once the marine was seated his speech began without further ado.

"We are here today to honor the service and commitment of of many, but in particular Gunnery Sergeant Craig R. Sims, quite possibly the best-known marine to us all. These accolades are long overdue, but what the hell, might as well do them now."

There were some smirks. Sims didn't count himself as well known at all.

"Gunnery Sergeant Sims first served with distinction in this company in the boarding action on the Astral Queen, ensuring that the situation was contained. He ensured the transfer of hostages and all weapons to the Galactica without further casualties among Fleet personnel. Indeed, his quick actions leading the boarding party probably saved the life of Specialist Cally, who was wounded in action.

During the events on Kobol, Gunnery Sergeant Sims once again took charge of a rapidly deteriorating situation and ensured minimal casualties amongst crewpersons. His actions were indirectly responsible for once again saving the life of Specialist Cally, in addition to Chief Petty Officer Tyrol. Upon his return to active duty, Chief Tyrol put Sims in for commendation in the face of enemy fire.

Most recently during the Starlight Lounge hostage crisis, he again braved enemy fire and was wounded in action. However, by doing so, he extracted Captain Thrace from danger and quite possibly saved her life. Her loss would have been a..."

Tigh's speech lost momentum slightly as he gritted his teeth.

"...monumental loss to Galactica.

The Fleet is indebted to Gunny Sims, who prevented the loss of its Vice President, CAG, and a great deal of its very vital technicians. Deck Crew Five holds Gunny Sims in particular esteem, and has pushed hard to make today possible. Gunnery Sergeant, would you please step up here?"

Sims hobbled forward, facing his commanding officer with no small amount of pride.

"For the boarding action of the Astral Queen, Gunny Sims and C Platoon of F Company, of the Three-Fifty-Second Marine Regiment are granted the Colonial Marine Corps Unit Commendation for gallantry in combat.

For actions taken on the surface of Kobol, Gunnery Sergeant Sims and Chief Petty Officer Tyrol are awarded the Colonial Navy Cross. Their distinguished service not only ensured the survival of Fleet and Marine personnel, but saved the life of the Vice-President of the Colonies.

For actions aboard the Cloud Nine, Gunnery Sergeant Sims is awarded the Purple Heart and the Colonial Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal.

Please step forward to receive your commendations."

It took fifteen minutes for everyone to receive their commendations. The Colonel seemed positively delighted with all the medals and good will floating around. There were murmurs of congratulations, handshakes, the whole nine yards.

"It's about damn time we had some medals passed out, Gunny," Saul said, shaking Sims' hand, "You lot deserve every one of them."

"Thank you sir, but what about everyone else?"

"There's another ceremony tomorrow, and then a third the day after for the Navy men. You've got a busy day, Gunny. You're holding the medals."

Sims groaned. He simply couldn't catch a break.

**A/N:** Yes, there's MORE coming after this. I just felt like CPO Tyrol and the others needed a slap on the back and fair ridiculous weights on their chest.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Somehow, Gunny's adventures continue. I've got the plot arc set to end of season. It's just finding the time to put it to paper that's a pain. This chapter is mostly instructional, but some good stuff. No worries. Also, next chapter is Lay Down Your Burdens I!

"Well, bullet sponges, you've managed to pass Basic Fitness and Deportment. Congratulations," said Gunny Sims, addressing the crowd of fresh-faced recruits as he leant on his crutch on the firing line of Galactica's range. Weapons were laid out on the table for the purpose of teaching the new recruits just what weapons they would be using. Sims hoped no one put a hole in themselves, even though he had cleared them all twice.

"We're now moving into the part of Basic that everyone enjoys the most: weapons familiarization. No, you won't get to play with these today. Well, maybe you will, if you listen good and I'm feeling generous."

He gestured to a line of pistols laying at the far left side of the battered steel table, crudely soldered together by the deck gang.

"Okay, first, sidearms. Nine millimeter semi automatic, fleetwide issue. Usually, we load them with overpressure rounds for that extra bit of penetration. It's not a bad weapon, I guess, but it tries to do a lot with not much. It won't mess up a toaster any. It's more powerful than our issue sidearm, but still doesn't have much stopping power. No armor piercing capacities worth mentioning. Twelve rounds in the mag, one up the spout."

He set the pistol back down, picked up the next one down the line.

"This is the pilot's revolver, in .357 Magnum. This is, without a doubt,_ the shit_. Nice, meaty round. Doesn't ever jam. Eight rounds that'll knock a man flat on his ass, and at least give the toasters pause. I figure if you give them one in the eye, it might take them out...but then again, I haven't had the opportunity to try. Kicks like a mule, though."

Flicking out the cylinder, he displayed the empty chambers to everyone before setting it back down.

"Okay, the Five-Seven. It's a piece of advanced frakking kit. Chambered to the 5.7 by 28 round - new introduction for the Marines, maybe a year old before the attack- it's almost specialist gear. It's meant for folks who can aim, so you won't get it for awhile. The round is small, yeah, but it's also frakking smart. Penetrates body armor like it's not there, some amount of steel, doesn't ricochet much. Mixed results against the toasters. Bonus feature- 20 millimeter underslung launcher. That WILL stop a toaster, every time."

Putting the pistol on, he eyed his students down. Not a mumble, not a head turned. Excellent. Hernandez had given them some amount of discipline.

"Alright, long arms. We have a lot of garbage here- old SA80s which jam half the time, used for parade. The .40SW sub machineguns are great for human targets, but the stocks are garbage, they don't do dick against toasters, and are generally a pain. That's my experience. The only long arms we have that are potentially effective are the P90 - basically, the Five-Seven's big brother - and the shotgun."

"Sir?"

"Yes, recruit?"

"What about the fancy weapons that the Pegasus marines get?"

"Tough frakking shit, son. The only way you're getting a hold of that kind of gear is to pry it out of their cold, dead hands."

"Yes sir."

"Okay, back to the lecture. Don't worry, we'll be doing actual exercises in a minute. Last weapon is, of course, the Remington 870 shotgun. Right now, as long as we're space-side, it's the best weapon we could ask for. Buckshot will turn a man's chest to chunky salsa, and a rifled slug will frak up a toaster's day. Only problem is that they only hold about eight shells, plus one up the spout."

Sims spent the rest of the day arbitrarily forcing the marines to do pushups, and teaching them to assemble, disassemble, strip and clean the weapons. In his eyes, they were learning abnormally quickly. It was doing him some good to teach, helping his wounds heal and keep him mind sharp. Despite this, his leg ached and he thought about Cally more and more often. Their relationship was a bright patch in an otherwise unpleasant life.

The range's phone began beeping. He looked over his class of recruits, on hands and knees re-assembling their weapons. He grabbed the phone once he was sure no mischief would ensue.

"Gunny Sims," he said into the phone, watching his men.

"Craig? It's me. Chief's got a suspicious cargo container, could you come check it out?"

Cally sounded nervous. Sims ducked as a recruit's hand slipped and something flew past him with alarming force.

"Hey, watch that recoil spring, jerk-ass! - sure, baby, be right down. Keep everyone away from it, okay?"

"Okay, see you soon. hurry."

_Frakking new guys_, he grumbled to himself. An apology came from the recruit in question. Two more recruits stood at parade rest, P90's assembled.

"Alright, you two...get some ammo for those things, kit up in the armory down the hall. the rest of you, finish putting those bastards together and do four laps of the ship. Meet in the gym, more PT after that. At the rate you're going with those things, we'll have found Earth before I take you shooting."

Sims watched as the recruits finished, and began their run around the Galactica. The two he had singled out were black-clad and appropriately grim. Sims fished a shotgun out of the arms locker, began loading it. He chambered a round of buckshot first, and then alternated rifled slugs and more buckshot. Either would put a human down, no question, but a toaster wouldn't even blink at the buckshot. Well, that was, if they could blink. Sims grudgingly abandoned his crutch, and set off for the flight deck at a hurried limp with his men in tow.

The time elapsed between Cally's call and Sims' arrival was only ten minutes, but by the time the marines got there, Tyrol was already inside the crate. Cally pointed wordlessly at the open doors and shrugged helplessly.

"CHIEF?"

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"Gunny Sims, what's going on?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just a stowaway."

"Tell him to come out with his hands behind his head!"

"Lords, gunny! It's a woman. A girl, a pregnant girl."

The two emerged from the storage container to the marines' leveled weapons. Sims grumbled, gestured for his men to lower their weapons.

"Alright, recruits. Escort her to Doc Cottle."

The young men nodded, and took up positions beside the trembling young women. They were exceedingly polite as they asked her to follow them. Sims turned to the Chief. He looked haggard, worn. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and his hair was a mess.

"Well, that was reckless. Why didn't you wait for me?"

"Don't know, gunny. Don't know. Didn't think it was a big deal."

"C'mon, Chief. You're smarter than that. If it had been a Cylon, just one, you and your entire crew would have been dead before we got here."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Man, you're smarter than that. And now you owe me a drink."

"Yeah," muttered the Chief, seeming distracted. "Sure thing, gunny."

Sims slapped the older man on the back, began limping off. He caught up to Cally as she worked on a Viper engine.

"Cally?"

"Yeah?"

"What's with the chief?"

"I don't know, Craig. He's just...different. I'm worried about him. He's all messed up inside."

"Keep an eye on him for me, okay?"

"Sure thing, gunny. Keep safe?"

He gave her a hug and nodded.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** I know, I know. Long time. But at least I edited all the previous chapters of this story, plus I'm gonna try to finish this one.

The Colonel stood in front of the assembled company of Marines, leaving heavily on the lectern set up on the flight deck. He was staring at his notes instead of the assembled Marines of the _Galactica_. One hundred and thirty-three faces waited expectantly, bodies in parade rest.

"Men and women of the 352cond Colonial Marine Regiment, I want you to know I'm proud of you. Each and every one of you."

He looked up, eyes sharp.

"I'm here to ask you a favor. Just one more. Anyone who doesn't opt to join us, no one will hold anything against you. This will be a dangerous mission. A mission of valor. Everyone who wants to..."

There was thunder in the tiny bay as boots slammed against the deck, all the marines taking a single step forward without a second thought. The Colonel looked back down at his prepared speech, shaking his head.

"Alright, Marines. You always did do me proud. Here's the jist of it: accompany Starbuck back to Caprica, provide security as she rendezvous with the Caprican Resistance. Rescue as many of the survivors as possible, and return."

The Marines stood rigidly, staring straight ahead.

"The mission's Marine contingent will comprise of personnel selected by Lieutenant Taiters, two platoons total. Half of our men and women in all the Raptors we have left. Failure or success, every man there will be immortalized. Every man and woman in this room has his or her name, rank, serial number, and profile have been burned into the computer banks. You will live **forever**, Marines. The pilots are being briefed as we speak. Lieutenant Taiters has given me his list of preferred candidates, which I will post as soon as this is over. Those whose names are there, report to Briefing Room C for details.

You men are heroes, never forget that. DIMISSED!"

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

Gunny Sims' name was first on the El-Tee's list. He wasn't limping anymore. Hell, Gunny's entire squad was first on the list. So, he caught up with Hernandez.

"Hey Gunny. I saw you were first on the list. The living legend himself."

"Ah, stow it. I'm still kinda freaked out. We're leaving the bullet sponges here alone. We're walking into lords-knows-what. "

"Hooah. But we're Marines, right Gunny?"

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't mean we're idiots."

"Gotcha, sir."

They sat down quietly, at the very front of the room, and were quickly concentrating on the details. The mission itself was well thought out for something so ambiguous, with a landing site already selected and contingencies set. Hell, they even had gear and fresh rifles from the Pegasus. Sims was nodding along with Taiter's explanation when the duty phone rang. The lieutenant frowned, and a corporal quickly leapt from his seat and took the call.

"Gunny Sims? Emergency call, from sickbay."

"Oh, frak," he cursed as he double-timed up the stairs. The lieutenant kept on going. He grabbed the phone gratefully from the younger man.

"Sims."

"This is Doctor Cottle. Gunny, Cally's hurt."

"How bad?"

He could see the eyes on him.Slowly turning around, away from the briefing.

"He busted her jaw pretty bad, had to wire it shut. Fractured her orbital bone, busted her nose."

"Repeat last? _HE_?"

"Tyrol brought her in, and the MP's took him. He did it to her."

"TYROL?"

That brought the briefing to a screeching halt. The betrayal in his voice was clear. The pain, the anger.

"Wassamatter, Gunny?" called out a frowning, concerned Taiters.

"Tyrol beat my girl half to death, sir."

"Shit, son. Take a seat. We're kitting up and heading out in an hour. I'm sorry, but there's not a damn thing you can do."

"Permission to kill that son of a _bitch_ I thought was my buddy, sir."

"Denied. Sit back down, you're my XO on this one. You can fuck him up when we get back. Is that five by five, Gunnery Sergeant."

"Wilco, sir."

He sat back down. Hernandez looked at him sideways as he tried to concentrate. But he kept fidgeting. Finally, Taiters just stopped.

"Dammit, Gunny, just go see your woman and don't murder no one. Be kitted out and squared away on the port flight deck in twenty, got me devil dog?"

"Hooah, sir. Thank you, sir."

BSGBSGBSGBSGBSG

The pad of paper and pen were provided by Cottle, who quickly made himself scarce. That in itself was odd. But Sims was concentrating on one thing.

"I came as soon as I could, babe. Oh, lords, what did that asshole do to you?"

She rolled her eyes, scratched something out in her tiny handwriting and showed it to him.

_It's okay, Craig. I'll be fine._

"I'm here for you, babe. But I gotta go soon. I had to skip out on a briefing to come here..."

_Go where?_

"Can't say, dear. I can't, orders."

_When will you be back?_

"Don't know."

_Will you be okay?_

"I'll be fine, dear. You know I will."

_Gunny, I have to tell you. Don't hurt him._

"Tyrol?"

She nodded, kept writing. A few painstaking minutes later,

_I don't think you'd understand. You've looked out for me for a long time, and I love you for it. But so has he. And now, I have to look after him. I love him too, Gunny. I'm sorry. I hope you understand._

He stood there in shock a moment, feeling heat and hurt crawl up his neck.

"Well. Well. I guess this is it."

And with that, he turned on his heel, and left, heartbroken.

The trip out was comforting, in a way. In Starbuck's Raptor, he slouched back and checked his gear. Shotgun, sidearm, grenades, everything. Hernandez looked at him funny, still. Tommy looked at the decking, then quietly asked the question.

"You okay, top?"

"Feelin' fine, Tommy."

"Hooah, top?"

"Hooah."

**BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG**

"SAR team, this is Starbuck. We just lost Raptor 612. We are proceeding as planned, out."

Sims cursed. Three Raptors down. Fireteams 18, 3 and 12 were gone, and he hoped for the best- that the end was quick for 612, and that the other two Raptors made it home safe and sound.

"Hernandez, who were the poor souls on there."

"Jacob's...oh my lords, Craig. Craig."

"What's the matter, man?"

"That was the HQ Raptor. The El-Tee was on there. You're in charge, Gunny."

"Captain! Can you get me a channel to my men?"

"Sure thing, Gunny. We'll be on the ground in five, remember that."

It was the one time she wasn't in the way. Go figure, he told himself.

"Marines, this is Gunny Sims. raptor 612 was carrying our HQ unit, including Lieutenant Taiters. They jumped into a mountain, Lords rest their souls, so I think I'm in charge now. Same plan, form up and be ready. Listen to your sergeants and corporals, men. Get out of the box as fast as you can. Live forever, Marines."

A single word came through overwhelming on the same channel:

"**HOOAH!**"


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Inspired by Lynnmichelle's triumphant return to ficcing, I have redoubled my efforts to finish this piece. As usual, I tried to make it slightly more 'realistic'. Least, as far as I figure. One more chapter.

The Raptor's doors swung down with a crash, and Gunnery Sergeant Sims was the first man out. He was yelling, waving his squad out of the Raptors, eyes sweeping the forest. Nothing, dead silence save the crash of boots and the furious barks of noncoms as they badgered their men into deployment. It took a few seconds for Sims to realize that he was effectively in command. Rifles swept the eerily quiet forest, caught in the orange glow of sunset.

"Jannos, c'mere," Gunny grunted, waving over his radio operator.

"Kilo Force, this is Kilo One One...scratch that, Kilo Actual. By the book, as fast advance as we can make it. Kilo Two Five on point, stay alert for mines or any other toys the toasters left us. In and out...I wanna be home for dinner."

It sounded better in his head. Thrace rolled her eyes as the individual sections formed a skirmish line behind the spread out scout party.

"I'm in charge, Gunny. I know the terrain, and I know the Resistance."

Letting Helo, Sharon and and rest of the squad fall into their place ahead of them, he did the unthinkable. Putting a hand firmly on her arm, he stopped her.

"Yessir. You DO know the Resistance. But after the Cloud Nine thing...do you honestly think _my men_ will listen to a damn thing you say? You're a pilot, not a leatherneck. You have rank, so I'll listen to you, but I'm in charge just like the El-tee would have been."

There was fire in her eyes. She wasn't used to insubordination. Hernandez called after the Sims from the treeline.

"Better catch up, _Captain_."

"You gonna be able to keep up, _Sergeant_?" she spat back. Sims let her go, and redoubled his efforts to conceal the stiffness in his knee.

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

The advance was, as Gunny dictated, careful but quick. His men were a little spread out but the new HQ section was clustered around the 'sandwich stand'- Kara, Sharon, Helo, and a few volunteer ECO's. Kara reddened in the face when the marines used the term over open channels, requesting information or directions from the inexperienced group of fighters. An hour into the rescue mission's advance through the woods, Sharon called a halt. Janno broadcast the command, and marines automatically hunkered behind trees or went prone. Gunny Sims was still glaring enviously at Kara's rifle, gleaned magically from the Pegasus stockpiles, along with the heavy weapons issued to each section. Grenade launchers and Section Support Weapons -squat, short-barreled light machineguns- could be seen poking through foliage. Helo consulted the map.

"Just over a click to Resistance base."

Sims nodded his approval. That meant one mile there, five back...could be done reasonably in two hours, if nothing went awry.

"Movement, eleven o'clock," called out Valeri. Sims hadn't even seen it. He grumbled to himself as he slid a little, watching the subtle shift of his men's weapons. The Sandwich Stand tittered amongst themselves as the marines spread out and prepared to lay down a withering hail of bullets. Helo broke the silence by poking his head out of cover and yelling to the distant figures.

"_You got a Samuel T Anders there?_"

Sims half expected him to get his head blown off. Three heartbeats went by with agonizing slowness as Sims's finger tightened around the trigger, a silhouette picked out...

"_There a Kara Thrace there?_"

Sims relaxed a bit. A different voice called from the growing group of figures crouching in the woods.

"_If there is, tell her she took her good sweet time!_"

There were smiles, grins. Corpsmen yelled across the no-man's-land, and the resistance fighters began to filter across with joyous expressions on weary faces. Anders and Thrace embraced as Sims looked on.

"Well, this went better than expected."

"Whassat, Hernandez?"

"Yeah, yeah...but it's not-"

"Uhh, sir?"

A tallish, rough looking redhead shouldered a civilian rifle as she stood at an approximation of attention.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but your men pointed me..."

"I'm Gunnery Sergeant Sims, this is Sergeant Hernandez, three-fifty-second Colonial Marines."

"Jean Barolay, second in command of the Resistance. Don't mean to break up the merry occasion, but the reason we're out here is that the toasters are after us."

"This is all of you?"

"Yeah, what's left."

"INCOMING!" yelled Valeri.

Sims heard it over the murmur of voices too- a whine, slowly growing louder. An explosion burst off to their left, two hundred feet from a marine position.

"MORTARS!"

Noncoms were screaming, getting their men to cover. Hernandez and Sims shoved, pulled or tripped the Sandwich Stand into cover before diving to the ground themselves. Bullets whizzed overhead, and Sims could hear his men orient themselves towards the threat. Kara was livid.

"Back to the Raptors!" she screamed, before Helo pulled her down.

Sims nodded as he gauged the shell trajectories- left and back. His men held firm, despite the shelling and suppressive fire. Tommy was bandaging up some small fragmentation wounds on Jean's arm.

"Don't bunch up, dammit!" he screamed at the ECO's, who were frantically calling for Raptor support. "Jean, your men up for a fight?"

"No way. Half of 'em are wounded."

"Raptors?"

"Up and running, but they only get one pass or we're out a ride home!"

"Alright. Jannos, tell the men we're gonna fight.They can't put shells on us if we're close enough."

Kara's eyes were wide. "You're insane!"

"Okay, here's the facts of life: we sit here, we're dead. The close with them, we have a chance to kill those mortars.Then, we book it back to the Raptors, get the frak out of here."

Sims gritted his teeth, turned his back on Thrace. She was obviously not fit for command.

"Jannos, sound the advance."

The volume of fire from the marines increased sharply. Squad by squad, they began to leapfrog forwards. Here and there, blasted pieces of Centurions sparked and twitched. Sims put in a slug in one for good measure as he passed. Suddenly, the Cylon fire dropped dramatically, then stopped. Marines took cover, awaiting a counterattack.

"Sir," Jannos said, listening to his earpiece, "Kilo One Three is at the mortar...apparently, looks like they all just upped and left. Piles of shells and all."

"One Three? Alright, tell them to blow it all, and get back. Frakking weird. Tell 'em to be careful, too."

"Gotcha, sir."

Sims waited anxiously, thumbing shells into his shotgun as he waited. Nothing made sense. Kilo One Three blew the mortar site, and the retreat back to the Raptors continued.

The Cylons bracketed the SAR mission with mortar fire again, near the ruins of a building atop a hill.Sims tried to raise the Raptors, with no luck. Jannos's radio was jammed as well. Orders to hunker down were spread through word of mouth as Sims debated what to do.

"Sharon, take the gun! They got us blocked in here really good!" called out Starbuck, passing over her rifle.

"Frak! Can't raise the Raptors. The Cylons have jammed the freq's."

"Frak! Options?"

"Run back to the Raptors!" was Kara's suggestion.

"Can't, it's murder out there, damn mortars," replied Hernandez.

"Stick it out?"

"Looks like it, until we can get through to the Raptors and unfrak ourselves," grumbled Tommy. He ducked a little as a round ricocheted off the wall above him. Helo and Sims watched small groups of Centurions congregate at the base of the hill on which the SAR mission found itself perched. Marines and Cylons exchanged fire.

"Still out there?" asked Jannos as he fiddled with his radio.

"Watch yourself.Yeah. They're holding back though," murmured Kara as she stared through a hole in the ruins."

"Yeah, but why?" asked Anders as he checked his clip. Sharon's voice was cold as she responded.

"They're holding position. Sending for nonlethal weapons. They want some prisoners for interrogation. The rest they're gonna send to the farm."

"I'm not going back to one of those farms."

"Yeah, well, you won't have any choice. None of us will. They're gonna lob some gas in here and then we'll all wake up somewhere else."

Kara seemed to fade off into her memories for awhile. Sims consulted Tommy as she relived whatever private horror had been visited upon her.

"Tommy, what's with the Captain?"

"That's post-traumatic stress if I've ever seen it. She probably shouldn't have even come on this mission, Gunny. She's a psychological casualty if I've ever seen one."

Sims cursed himself stupid. He watched as Kara's eye movement became increasingly furtive, her breaths more labored. Suddenly, the fire became sporadic, slowed. Kara began to panic, whisper to Anders. Her jaw was set. Suddenly, she drew her sidearm, pointed it at his head. Sharon just watched mechanically, seemingly uncaring.

"Oh, frak."

Sims moved toward the agitated woman slowly. Hernandez, ever his right hand, moved to the right, trying to sneak up behind her.

"Captain, put down that gun, now."

"Sims," she whispered, tears winding down her face, "frak off. This is private."

"You're pointing your pistol at the man you came here to rescue, while we're pinned down by toasters. You're unfit for duty."

"Sims..."

There was a clumping sound, and Kara slumped to the ground. Hernandez flexed his fist around his heavy sap.

"Thanks," muttered Anders, stripping her of the pistol.

"No worries, mate. Tommy, get her back with the other wounded. If she comes to...well, use the butt of your gun or something."

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

The first wave struck a half hour later. Some of the Centurions below opened up once again, and the Marines and Resistance fighter leapt to the foxholes. Sims jammed his shotgun through a hole in the wall as a fellow marine leant an SSW on the wall above him.

Five Centurions struggled up the hill under a rain of fire, showered by sparks. The five didn't get very far, dismembered by shotgun slugs or blown up by grenade launchers.

_Well, they'll think twice about doing that again_, Sims thought to himself. The Cylons below seemed to be stuck, simply standing around, no longer even exchanging fire with the marines, despite the sparks striking off of them, illuminating them in the growing darkness. Then, something snapped. All the Centurions suddenly rushed into a charge, abandoning mortars and firing positions, charging up the hill.

"Frak!" screamed Sims as he noticed, opening up immediately. He counted two ways as they red 'eyes' of the enemy pulsed in the darkness below, muzzle flashes all around him flaring in the dusk.

_Five shells, twenty three Cylons._

_Four shells, twenty one Cylons._

_Three shells, eighteen toasters._

The first one made it to their lines, a giant metal foot perched on the wall, set to leap. He blew it off at the ankle, sent the machine tumbling.

_Two shells._

He popped a grenade halfway down the hill, cursing at his poor timing. more than half were already past it. He threw another. Up and down the line marines fought with grit and determination, bringing down as many Cylons as they could. Sims moved down the line, where the fighting was more concentrated.

"Come on, fight you bastards!" one corporal yelled to the Resistance fighters.

_One shell._

The Cylon was missing is left arm and was cratered all over by the time it got to Sims. It crashed through the wall, sending men sprawling. The gunny fired instinctively, missing. He racked the slide again...nothing. His sidearm, one of the older revolvers, came up instinctually as back pedaled frantically, the Cylon's remaining claw reaching for his face. He tripped over a dazed private, virtually doing a pratfall and losing his shotgun.. The Centurion's leg raised, ready to crush him as Sims brought his gun up. His first two shots traced their way up the machine's torso, using the natural muzzle rise and recoil of the weapon. The third penetrated the machine's 'skull', stopping it. A flurry of shotgun slugs and rifle fire sent it rolling back down the hill where it came from. Gunny came up panting.

There was nothing else to kill. The suicidal charge of the Cylons ended in silence, save the moan of "Corpsman!"

Looking around at his shell-shocked men, Sims was a little numb. He picked up his shotgun, began thumbing shells in. Similar clicks filtered through the descending darkness.

"Jannos? Jannos, you make it?" he called out.

"Yeah, gunny, I'm right...ah, lords. Lords. CORPSMAN!"

A new voice came from the twilight. A country preacher stepped from a crowd of Resistance fighters, arms wide.

"Praise be to the gods, my children, for we have defeated the foes of Mankind once again!"

Something stung his left eye as the radio operator eased him into a sitting position, marines praying around him.

"What's the damage?"

"Bad, bad gash, sir. Wicked deep along the scalp, down long the forehead...you're lucky, sir. Looks like it missed your eye entirely, but you're gonna have one hell of a scar. Gods almighty, Tommy! Move!"

"Oh, frak. Follow my finger with your eyes...good. Gauze him, it's superficial. It's gods-damned ugly as all hell, but you'll be okay, sir."

Jannos grabbed a wad of gauze from the medpack as Sims took off his helmet. Near the edge over his eye, the very tip of the Cylon's finger had broken off and embedded itself in the helmet. The radio man pulled it out, handed it to him.

"Nice little keepsake. Hernandez, give me a hand."

The pair awkwardly taped the gauze to his bare head. Sims grumbled, packed most of an MRE into his face as he sat there.

"Alright, enough sitting," he grunted, sending crumbs everywhere as he dusted his hands off.

"Casualties?"

"Six of our dead, some more with the Resistance, though a bunch of them died of their wounds from before the fight. About a dozen more wounded, only a few critical."

"Alright, Jannos. Can you get through to the Raptors?"

"Five by five, sir. They were pretty anxious."

"Good. Alright, let's double time back. Lords only know what the toasters will do anymore."

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

Sims stepped off the Raptor, feeling only slightly worse after a four mile dash and five hours of sleep. The deck was milling chaos- wounded being hurried off to Cottle's dungeon, Resistance fighters hollow-eyed, marines saluting friends, exchanging details. Colonel Tigh was the first officer to step up to the Gunnery Sergeant. He snapped a second-rate salute, and his CO returned it.

"Geez, Gunny. You look like hell. Where's Taiters?"

"Lost on Caprica, sir. Raptor jumped into a mountain. Do we have word on the other two Raptors we lost along the way?"

"Both made it back fine. You wouldn't BELIEVE what Racetrack found. Where's Thrace, then?"

"Psychological casualty, sir. Rather not talk about it right now."

"Oh. Mission successful?"

"Yessir."

"Good, go see Cottle. Good work, marine."

"Thank you, sir."

The preacher from Caprica bustled past Tyrol, who did a double take, clipboard in hand. Sims stared the man down, having a hard time keeping his eyes off the man who had stolen Callie. Suddenly, Tyrol whipped around, shoving the holy man up against a Raptor. Sims's reaction was the subject of some debate, afterwards. He rolled his shotgun off his shoulder, and slammed the butt into Tyrol's midsection. He crumpled. Admiral Adama's form suddenly filled the space between the two, voice booming.

"Gunny! What's the meaning of this?"

"He assaulted a priest, sir."

The priest nodded, full of bluster and indignation.

"He's...he's a Cylon...sir."

The priest grinned, semi-comically.

"Yes, it's true."

The hangar deck exploded in a riot of motion, and Gunny Sims felt small, gentle hands spirit him away from the center of things. Pulled to the edge of the crowd, he knew Cally had brought him there, but she disappeared as quickly as he came. He hadn't seen her. Jean was there, sitting on a crate. She looked numb. Sims called out to her.

"Miss Barolay...you alright?"

She looked up, surprised.

"You look like hell, Gunnery Sergeant."

"Yeah. Mind giving me a hand to the infirmary? I...uhh, well, I'm having trouble seeing."

"Gotcha. Sure."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** A few references you may not understand, and once again a tip of the hat to poor Lynn and her bruised and battered Kara...and her story **Blameless**, for having marines in it. So, its events are referenced here as well. Go read her story. For the record, Lee is quoting/singing the _Ballad of Rodger Young_. Changed it a little to reflect the setting, but I'm still kind of sentimental towards the poem about one of the greatest soldiers to ever live.

Sims was most of the way to the noncoms' quarters when he saw Commander Adama appear from the pilot's quarters. He shut the bulkhead door, hard. Lee sighed hard, leaned against it. Sims saluted, face stiff. The stitches were still fresh and itchy, making anything beyond a poker face or half-smile incredibly irritating at best.

"Gunny."

"Sir."

Before the younger man's hand could be raised in a salute, a squeal ripped through the door, ending in a low growl. Adama looked like it had slapped him across the face. Sims raised his 'good' eyebrow, the one without thirty sutures through it.

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"She's frakking nuts. I don't know how anyone puts up with her. She put a gun to the head of the Caprican resistance back there. Damned if I know if she would have pulled the trigger if Sergeant Hernandez hadn't hit her over the head."

"Yeah, and now she's frakking him. Oh, and dead drunk."

Gunny Sims winced as the look of surprise on his face pulled at his stitches. He briefly wondered if he had ever really doubted her reputation of skankiness and alcoholism, and decided he had just taken it on faith. Sims had never liked her anyways, but Lee looked like he had been beaten with a stick. His eyes were sunken back into his head, gaze distant.

"Lords. You look like you could use a drink, and I damn well know I could use one."

"Listen, Gunny, now's..."

"Now's not the time for paperwork, sir."

Sims grabbed the commander of the Pegasus and shoved him towards the noncoms' quarters. They both needed a good, solid drunkening.

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

Lee took a tentative sip of the clear liquor.

"This actually isn't bad, Gunny. I can still see."

"Welcome, sir. Hope it's not awkward being with us lineslime. That's my radio operator, Ted Jannos. Hernandez is my sergeant, first section- the one I used to be in. Tommy's our corpsman. That's Miss..."

"It's Jean, Gunny. Just Jean."

"Alright. Introductions are all done. Cheers."

Adama half-smiled, raised his cup.

"To the everlasting glory of the infantry, gentlemen. And woman."

"Oh ho," chortled Hernandez, "so you flyboys actually learned worth learning, eh?"

Laughs all around. Lee smiled, took a gulp of the vicious homemade liquor from Jammer's still.

"My ethics teacher was a leatherneck named Dubois...very fond of that song."

"Ethics? Why would you need ethics in your nice little whiz-jet? I thought you were learning to fly."

Lee was loosening up a little, despite Hernandez chewing him out. Sims speculated on the miraculous properties of Jammer's still over a second cup of vodka.

"Shut up. So...yeah. How'd you get that nice little zipper there, hero?"

"Centurion. Got a little close for comfort."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, that's the jist of it. Looks worse than it is," griped Tommy, "but still prolly hurt like hell. Gunny barely noticed, at any rate. So, didja hear about Dendrow? He's managed to get a girl already."

"Thought what's her face only dumped him a week ago," grumbled the married Hernandez.

"Yeah, but apparently getting a bullet hole in the shoulder really endeared him to the ladies."

"Yeah, well I'm still sore over my knee, PLUS this new zipper and I don't see the women fighting over me just yet."

"I don't know, Gunny," smiled Jean over her cup, " it does make you stand out some."

"Oh, Jean...he's the fleet hero. He stands out plenty already."

"Shaddup, Hernandez!"

"...and it didn't help him keep Cally, either!"

More laughter. Drinks. Sims was grumbling, but in better spirits. Adama was relatively silent, perhaps feeling out of sorts for being a pilot, not an officer.

"Hey, I'm not the only one with girl problems. Lee just had another run in with his trauma-case ex."

"Which?"

"Wassat?"

"Starbuck was never my ex!"

The marines shook their heads, and Jean just smiled into her cup. It had been pretty clear that something had been going on between the two. Speculation had run rampant throughout the ship on many occasions- especially on Starbuck's return from Caprica.

"So, how come," Lee asked, tripping over the words trying to change the subject, "a twentysomething like you is the senior NCO for the, the, the 352cond?"

"We lost half our noncoms and our IIC. Briefing room with Captain Yoshitaro after the first attack, port flight pod. After that, lots of promotions. Hell, I was only freshly-graded sergeant. Hernandez there was a private, first class. Since we've been put through the meat grinder so often, we have a lot of half-sections, noncom doubling, and five officers including the colonel. Single section platoons, lancejacks running squads and stuff. We've been policing the Battlestar and the fleet with the help of some volunteers...but yeah. Call it about forty percent casualties, killed or wounded, at any given point. We just got some newbies last month, but the 352cond is two-hundred and nine men strong. Two companies, barely."

Everyone's face was grave. Hernandez raised his glass.

"Honor the fallen. To absent friends."

Everyone drank quietly, and a silence fell over the room. Everyone was thinking about long lost friends when O'Hare burst into the room, dripping wet. One hand held up a towel as he grumbled. When he noticed the noncom's bunk was full of drinking noncoms, instead of sleeping ones. He snapped a salute to Lee, who waved it down.

"Sorry, sir," muttered Sims,"this is O'Hare, one of our enlisted boys."

"Good to see you back, Gunny," he said, dripping on the floor as he edged around Tommy, blushing furiously.

"Yeh, yeh. You know how it is with him, O'Hare. Goes out, comes back hurt, all heroic-like."

"Always happens, doesn't it sarge?"

"Damndest thing. That's how he got his own, private corpsman."

Tommy laughed.

"Hernandez, shut the frak up. I spent twenty minutes pulling shrapnel out of you and three seconds handing Jannos gauze and tape. You're more trouble than him, easy."

Jean cleared her throat.

"So, Commander-"

"Lee."

"...Lee, then. What's your relationship with Starbuck?"

He was silent a second.

"Did you know that Racetrack had a thing for Gunny for a little bit?"

The marines glanced around...Racetrack HAD been their Raptor pilot quite a bit, but they didn't pay much attention to that. Instead, they leant in on the slightly drunk officer, in a mockery of intimidating behavior, the supposed hallmark of the Colonial Marine.

"A for effort, Commander. Answer the question."

"I have to get back to my ship..."

"No, you don't. Man, if you're just gonna be a pussy about it...well, we can guess."

Lee turned red. Bright, angry, drunken-fury red.

"Alright! Alright. I love her. Loved her. Whatever. We had a relationship, I guess, before Dee. Before all that. Sorry. Sorry."

Tommy grinned.

"It's a start."

"Atta boy. Tell us the rest."

Jean seemed unduly interested. Her eyes were hard, yet empty. Jaw set in a rictus grin, she sipped her homebrew and stared at Lee as he spilled his guts. She listened coldly, and when he was done- done telling about the bruises on Kara's body, the marine, the argument with Helo, they all nodded. Sims leaned back in his chair.

"Quite a story, commander. Quite a story. Well, I think I can commiserate, at least with Cally dumping me and all."

Hernandez snickered.

"Trouble in paradise, sir?"

"Shove it, Hernandez. He busted her jaw, and she still says she loves him."

"Godsdamn. Women are nuts."

"Frakking nuts, each and everyone one."

The men poured themselves another glass of the vicious liquor as Jean did not so much as comment. She nodded to herself once, then again as the men clinked cups.

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

The first to hear the singing was Jammer, midway through the night watch. The deck bay was empty, save for himself, Cally, Seelix, Figurski, and a waiting Raptor. Stopping a second, he heard the first stanza of the drunken voices of a half-dozen men.

_Oh, they've got no time for glory in the Infantry._

_Oh, they've got no use for praises loudly sung_

_But in every soldier's heart in all the Infantry_

_Shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young_

Seelix heard it next, putting down her torque wrench with uncertainty as she struggled to pull a wrecked gimbal from a Viper. _Rodger Young?_, she asked herself silently. The chorus- shouted by a handful of marines- cleared her uncertainty up, and startled her so badly she dropped her wrench.

_**Shines the name, Rodger Young!**_

_Fought and died for the men he marched among_

_To the everlasting glory of the Infantry_

_Lives the story of Private Rodger Young_

Cally's lip trembled. She hadn't seen the Gunny since before the SAR mission to Caprica. Something told her that his voice was amongst those of the balladiers, whose slurred voices and discordant melodies were rapidly approaching.

_Caught in ambush lay a company of Colonial Marines_

_Just grenades against the horror machines in the gloom_

_Caught in ambush till this one of two hundred marines_

_Volunteered, volunteered to meet his doom_

She mumbled a panicked request to Jammer for a boogie board to hide under a Raptor with, lips moving frantically. Jammer put a hand to his ear with a grin, pantomime clear- _I can't hear you_.

_**Volunteered, Rodger Young!**_

_Fought and died for the men he marched among_

_To the everlasting glory of the Infantry_

_Glows the last deed of Private Rodger Young_

Jean held up a remarkably unsteady Gunny Sims as they tottered into the bay at 0253 in the morning. His men leant and swerved against one another and the bulkheads as the assembly made their way to the Raptor. Lee was at the core of them, singing along, dead drunk and feeling great. Cally stood in the open, Jammer tipping a salute with a pair of pliers before turning back to his work.The song stopped mid-verse.

Marines looked dully at Cally, who stood looking awkward, and Sims, who had one arm looked around the resistance fighter's shoulders. They knew vaguely that it was for support, because Sims had demanded to escort the Commander back to his Raptor in 'proper military tradition'. Jean, who was the soberest of the bunch, saddled herself with the big marine's weight and guided him along the halls. Now, she slipped a hand over his as Sims tried to work his mouth into saying something appropriate. He straightened his back, stood tall as he could as Jean leant into him.

"Cally."

"'Mmmms."

"Fine, whatever. Commander...goo...good luck."

"Awright, you too Sims. Gunny."

The two shook hands, as Cally stared at Jean, looking her over. Pulling out a grimy pad of paper, she carefully wrote a message as the Commander boarded unsteadily. She displayed it to the marines, who swayed silently, feeling uneasy in the emotional currents.

_Gunny, who's this?_

"I'm Jean Barolay, Resistance two-eye-cee. You must be Cally."

Jean's voice dripped contempt. Lots of contempt. O'Hare had filled her in on the situation when Sims had made a head call. Cally raised an eyebrow in response, took a step forwards, murmuring loudly through clenched teeth. Tommy slid between the two sides.

"Alright, enough."

Jean refused to move. She continued staring down Cally.

"What's she so uppity about?"

"Thhhhh's mmmm mmmnn."

"Since when?"

Cally sneered as best she could with her jaw wired shut, threw up her hand dismissively, and returned to work. On the inside, she was hurt. But even she knew that brawling with a broken jaw was stupid. But it hurt to let him go, to let Sims go on the mission, to duck him since the affair on the landing deck. But now she had to. She had made her choice, and told herself that over and over again as another song started. She threw on her ear protectors, and helped move the Raptor in for takeoff. She could still hear his voice, long after he left.

**A/N:** Alright, I lied. Oooone more chapter. Maybe two. Go read LynnMichelle's **Blameless** and whatnot.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Bit to tide you over. I'm thinking about expanding this into the year before the end of S2.5. Tell me what you think, read and review and all that.

Gunny Sims awoke with a pounding headache, eyes screwed shut. The beeping of his alarm clock felt like someone taking a sledgehammer to his brain. He slapped the snooze button, rolled onto his back. He had a class to teach. The bullet sponges needed combat lessons. Groaning softly to himself, he put his legs over the edge of the bunk, rested his hands on his knees. He heard similar groans from around the room.

"Hell of a night, Gunny," called a female voice. Unfamiliar, bare feet dangled into view from above.

"Yeh. Whossat?"

"Jean, Jean Barolay. Remember?"

"Yeah, remember the face but not the night."

"It'll come, Gunny."

He shook his head...slowly. It was still kind of hazy and sore, the stitches only compounding the problem. The Commander...Lords. Well, he had more immediate concerns, like getting the recruits moving.

"What're your plans for the day, Jean?"

"Nothin'."

"Wanna come and help me PT the frak out of the new batch of would-be bullet sponges?"

"Sure, why not. Someone's bound to want this bunk back."

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

"Alright, maggots, outta your cots and grab your socks, 'cause we're going running before we put some chow into you!" Gunny Sims yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Double time, bullet sponges!" screamed Hernandez, tearing the sheets off anyone in reach. Jean watches, a sly grin on her face.

"Boots on, scum! This is reveille, not Sunday after church!"

In just under four minutes, Gunny Sims, Sergeant Hernandez and Lance Corporal O'Hare had bullied, badgered or otherwise intimidated the recruits into their boots and had them standing at attention.

"Alright, recruits! Two lines, four laps, cadence loudn' proud. We have a guest this morning...Jean Barolay, a **_real_** soldier - unlike you miserable pieces of crap. She'll be kicking the ass of anyone who lags behind. Now, MOOOOOOVE!"

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

Crewmen scattered at the thunder in the corridors. In started as a dull roar with rhythmic intensity, and it only got louder as the marines got closer to the mess hall. Deck Crew Five's nightshift was having breakfast when they heard the noise. Also present were a few others, including a very satisfied-looking Colonel Tigh. Had anyone been close enough, they would heard him happily mumbling along to the marines' cadence around his scrambled 'eggs'. It took hearing the lyrics before he realized what he was doing, head bobbing to the rhythm. It was an all-too familiar part of his Basic on Corranado Island on Aerelon, and afterwards on any number of days of PT.

_Jodee, Jodee, six foot four!_

_Jodee's never been whupped before_

_I'm gonna take a three-day pass_

_And really slap a beating on Jody's ass!_

Cally's head turned at the sound of the call and response. Figurski raised an eyebrow.

"You gonna take off?"

Cally nodded, stood, and headed towards the door. Jammer shook his head, fork tapping his plate.

"Man, I don't know what the chief was thinking. I don't know what **she's** thinking."

"Everyone's on their last gasp, last straw. I guess that's why the chief snapped."

"What about her?"

"Damned if I know," mumbled Seelix around a piece of toast, "She hasn't said a word to anyone."

"Really?"

"Not a gods-damned soul as far as I know. Maybe she always felt that way for the chief."

Figurski's response was lost in the thunder of voices.

_GI beans and GI gravy_

_Gee I wished I joined the Navy_

_HO NO! Not me!_

_**MARINE CORPS! HO YEAH!**_

"Godsdamn they're loud," yelled Figurski.

"They're marines, Tony. What were you expecting? Tea with the queen of Geminon?"

"Yeah, yeah. Damn. I don't know how they do it."

"What, Seelix?"

"Drink the shit you brew until they can't walk straight, then run their asses off first thing in the morning, screaming at the top of their lungs."

There was a chuckle all around. Jammer shook his head.

"Gunny's a great guy. Cally wrecked his heart. One of his best buddies stole his girl. But that redheaded number last night..."

"Yeah, who's she?"

"Damned if I know."

"Yeah, well-"

Suddenly, the mess hall came alive. Gunny Sims double-timed it in first, at the head of a column two marines wide and fifteen long. O'Hare, Hernandez, and Barolay occupied the flank and rear respectively.

"Atten-HUT! Faceee...right!"

The marines snapped to with precision and form. As soon as they saw the Colonel, they snapped a salute. Tigh's hand shot up, returned it.

"At ease. Not a bad group, Gunny."

"Haven't seen them shoot, sir."

"Alright. Gonna put some chow in these recruits?"

"Yessir."

"Carry on."

The recruits formed a hasty line, grabbing plastic trays and trying to keep from sweating onto the surface they were going to be eating off of.

"Gunny?"

"Sir!"

"Who's the civvie?"

"Sir, Jean Barolay, Resistance second in command, sir!"

"Ease up, Gunny. Hernandez, watch the recruits. You two, get chow. We can debrief her over breakfast. And Gunny, while you're up, get me another cup of coffee, will ya?"

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BGS BSG BSG BSG

"And that's when we met up with Craig's...sorry, Gunnery Sergeant Sims' force."

Tigh raised an eyebrow. It was an hour and three cups of coffee later, the recruits long ago gone for more physical training.

"Gave them a good blood nose then, ma'am."

"Please, colonel. Jean."

"Did she force informality on you too, Gunny?"

"Yessir."

"Alright, after that, we know everything. So, what're your plans now?" asked Tigh, as if it was nothing.

"Sir?"

"Just a question, Gunny."

Jean's gaze went back and forth between the old marine and the younger one. She pursed her lips.

"Don't know. What is there to do up here?"

"Well, you've certainly earned some off time. Gunny, take her out to Cloud Nine, will you?"

"Sir? What about the recruits?"

"Hernandez can handle them awhile, Gunny. You need some R&R."

"Colonel...I'd rather be doing something than nothing. I could have just hid in the mountains on Caprica. But I didn't. "

"Alright, alright. Gunny, day pass. Show Jean around Cloud Nine, get her relaxed. If she still wants to keep fighting, she can join the Colonial Marines."

"Sir!"

Gunny was shocked at Tigh's tongue-in cheek humor and insistence that he stay in contact with the Caprican fighter. The colonel wasn't even drunk.

"It's an order, Gunny. Anyways, just about everyone in the fleet heard about your antics last night with Lee. You're getting a wound stripe for that nice little cut you got yourself, so I might as well give you some time off for good behavior."

"Sir..."

"Dismissed, Gunny!"

Tigh stood, saluted. Sims returned the salute, and his commanding officer walked off, coffee cup and paperwork in hand. Sims sat there a moment, slack-jawed, before turning to Barolay.

"Alright, so now I have no private life. Let's go drinking."


	15. Chapter 15

"Scotch, double. Straight up, please."

"Yessir! With pleasure! And the lady?"

"Ohhhh...lords," Sims groaned. The barman had caught sight of him, and despite the heavy stitches on his face, recognized the marine.

"Strawberry Daquiri?"

"Yes ma'am, coming right up."

Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims knew it was going to be a long day when he woke up. Just how long, he had failed to foresee. Instead, he was in Cloud Nine's Starlight Lounge again, with Jean Barolay, talking over drinks as other crew and civilians swirled about the restaurant and dance floor. Sims stared at the bartop resolutely. Maybe no else one would notice he was there.

"The sixty year Sagitarian for the sergeant, and a strawberry daquiri for the lady."

"Fiddich? You're kidding me," exclaimed Jean, staring at the bottle. "That stuff's five grand a bottle. More, probably, now."

The bartender grinned, holding out the bottle for inspection.

"Second to last bottle in all the galaxy. Both drinks, on the house."

"Awww, geez. Really. What do I owe you?"

"Nothing, sir. Not a cubit."

Jean stared in disbelief, sipped her drink.

"You gotta tell me how you got the most expensive liquor, in the last bar in the Colonies, as a freebie."

"S'nothing."

"Even before the Fall, you had to be pretty high up the ladder to swing that. Hey...the free drinks don't have anything to do with that 'hero of the fleet' crack, does it?"

Sims sullenly sipped his drink. Barolay shook her head, leaned back in the teak chair. She closed her eyes, licked her lips.

"You have no idea how often I panged for one of these back there, Gunny."

"I can imagine. Well, you've seen what I usually drink."

"Finest whiskey ever made?"

"Jammer's vodka, smartass."

"Yeh, fine. I can see you really don't want to talk about whatever pull you have here. Barkeep!"

The man scurried over quickly, eager to please. He was balding, a little overweight, in his early forties, she guessed. He would have been a fine sommelier at a five-star restaurant, had one existed.

"Yes ma'am?"

"What's the deal with you and Gunny Sims?"

He raised an eyebrow, chanced a glance at Sims, who sipped his drink and looked around the room.

"He hasn't told you?"

"Not a word."

"Barkeep, I'll give you a thousand bits to keep quiet."

"Sorry sir, but the lady needs to know...and I have not a clue how she doesn't already. Gunny Sims is the finest marine in the fleet. He helped free the prisoners on the Astral Queen, he kept the survivors of the Kobol crash alive, including Vice- President Baltar..."

"Kobol? I thought that was just a myth."

"Where have you been these last few months, miss? Under a rock?"

"Caprica, actually. Just got here yesterday."

"Ah, another resistance fighter. Welcome to the Fleet, ma'am. How'd you come by the Sergeant?"

"Met him on Caprica, helped me off-planet."

"I was on shift here when terrorists attacked. Gunny was wounded trying to save us. Well, welcome home, Ma'am. There's a bunch of resistance fighters in that corner, perhaps you know some of the them. Perhaps the sir would enjoy a more thorough introduction."

Sims sipped his liquor, keeping quiet as the bartender trundled off and occupied himself with another patron. She'd have heard sometime anyways, or so he told himself. He wasn't a hero. He was just doing The Job. His job. The only thing he really knew how to do. And here everyone was, heaving him onto a pedestal for it._ If they were trained and armed_, he thought to himself, _wouldn't they have done the same? _

"So, the long list of Gunny Sims' great deeds grows."

"Jean, you're plenty heroic yourself. You fought the Cylons as much as I did, in the-"

"JEAN!"

Both heads whipped around at the battlefield yell in the lounge. Anders waved at the pair. Jean looked up at Sims.

"C'mon, I want to introduce you to MY friends."

He didn't move. He really, really didn't want to talk about his exploits at length. He wanted to enjoy his scotch, rack out, and not worry about anything in particular for weeks on end. He couldn't muster out. What would he do? What would he want to do? Barolay grabbed his hand as he waxed philosophical. She gave his arm a gentle tug.

"C'mon. I'm not joking."

He grumbled to himself. _Why not, _he thought,_ can't get any worse than my headache_. Of course, by the time, he sat down in the small circle of scraggly Capricans. Jean reached out, touched his leg. Sims just about jumped out of his skin...Cally had only done that once, touching his leg before a night together. Sims fidgeted, uncomfortable.

"Anders," he said, recognizing the fighter and nodding politely.

"Gunnery Sergeant."

There was a loud giggle, drowning out polite greetings. A blonde flopped into Anders' lap, squealing with delight as she held a bottle of liquor high. She kissed him hard, in front of everyone.

"Kara,"Anders murmured breathlessly as she pulled away. She turned around, smiling a drunken smile. Sims' gaze was ice already. Hers was only slightly more comforting than hard vacuum.

"Gunny."

"Sir. Aren't you supposed to be on duty?"

She hiccuped once, looked at Anders. Taking another swallow of the clear brown liquid, she turned the marine, slamming the bottle down hard.

"I'm debriefing mister Anders here."

Another forced, drunken laugh. Jean's laughter was icy, the gleam in her eye positively dangerous. Something was terribly wrong, he could tell.

"Yes, Commander Adama said the same yesterday, didn't he Gunny? But he meant in a more literal sense, I suppose. You **do **know Commander Adama, don't you Starbuck?"

A gulp from Kara, as her gaze flitted between the marine and Barolay.

"Yes. Gunny..."

"Oh, we don't care, do we Jean?"

"Not a bit, Gunny. But you sure did break his heart, didn't you Starbuck."

Something rose in Sims, his mind trying to clear the fog of his hangover. Jean was heading somewhere with her line of questioning, and Sims was in a bad place for being by her side. There was a quiet war going on between the two women, over something he had no clue existed. His first instinct was to try to make a break for it, but Jean's hand became a vice at the first sign of movement.

"What do you want, Barolay?" Starbuck slurred from atop Anders, who had nowhere to go.

"Oh, nothing. Just making conversation. You see, me and Gunny Sims had an interesting conversation with Lee."

"What about?"

"Oh, nothing. We just discussed women in general."

"You a dyke, Barolay?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no. But Lee definitely had some interesting things to say. He was under the impression that you loved him a great deal."

"Jean, Jean...easy," Sims said, reaching out and putting a hand on hers. A resistance member- a young man, maybe no more than seventeen on closer inspection- coughed into his drink. He snarled at the sight of Gunny's touch.

"Who're you to tell her shit, leatherneck?"

"Aww, shut up Joey," Jean said, rebuking him. She frowned, took another sip of her daquiri, and turned an icy eye back to Kara.

"Poor guy thought that shacking up with you meant a piece of your heart. Isn't that interesting, Anders?"

Sims watched the byplay. It was savage, Kara and Jean trading insults and quips. Jean had the advantage- she wasn't dead drunk. She also had a sympathetic audience in the Resistance- they seemed to view Kara as an outsider, as much as the Gunny was. Sympathetic, both. But Kara was trying to work her way into what had been a deeply paranoid, closed group. Barolay's implications not only sullied her name, but made a point: Kara had cheated on Anders while she was away. And that didn't settle well at all. Sims couldn't diffuse the situation without getting between the two proverbial fighting dogs.

Sims spied a small group of marines enter the lounge. He longed desperately to join them, or call them over, but he couldn't. Kara and Jean were still going at it, with a growing chance that a punch-up would start soon. Sims couldn't abandon his charge, his new friend. There was a dangerous gleam in Starbuck's eye, and a positively delighted one in Barolay's._ She wants a fight_, he realized a little too late. Starbuck reached across the table for Barolay's collar, and the table exploded in motion.

**A/N**: The cliffhangrocity! Next chapter soon, really. No, I mean it.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Short one. Got writer's block as far as this piece is concerned.

"Lords, Gunny. Think you guys did enough of a number here?"

Broken glass and furniture was everywhere. A few people were still being helped or stretchered out. Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims stood rigidly at attention, saying nothing. A sack of ice lay on the table, melting instead of being held to Sims' new shiner. The Colonel was chewing Sims out for the brawl.

"Four people in the infirmary. A dozen more discharged from it already. What can you say to redeem this **TOTAL FRAKUP**?"

Sims said nothing. Tigh sighed, pulled up a stool.

"Alright, Gunny, start at the beginning."

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

Starbuck was reaching for Jean's throat. Sims was moving before he knew what he was doing. He caught one of her arms at the wrist, curling it back onto itself as he gave her a solid elbow smash to the face. Then, everyone was brawling. A resistance fighter struck Sims in the eye with a haymaker, sending him sprawling. A civilian socked THAT resistance fighter. A boot took Sims in the ribs, and he rolled. Grabbing the foot, he jerked the man down and punched him in the neck.

Unbeknownst to Sims, a pair of marines watched the entire fiasco with some small amazement. They stood still until they saw him go down in the melee. Then, they took up the beer bottle and the stool to help him out.

Sims watched a civvie take a bottle to the head. Dodging another punch meant for him, Sims let the anger take over. Wrapping his arm around his assailant's, he locked it in place. His grip constricted as he delivered a pair of jabs to the man's short ribs. His arm tightened up, and there was a pop and a howl of pain. A sickening _whoops_ brought Sims down a bit, watching the fighters disengage or go prone. He let his man go, and looked around. What a mess.

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"So that's it? Starbuck started this, and you and your marines were just bystanders?"

"Sir. Yessir."

"And so that's why Cottle's setting five arms and three legs, and has almost two hundred stitches ahead of him, isn't it?"

"We're Colonial Marines, sir. We play for keeps."

"You're lucky, you know. You're just getting charged with drunken disorderly and assault. Fifteen days in the brig, plus a month's pay held, for what it's worth. After that, you've got a landing site to secure."

"Yessir. Reporting to brig, sir."

Sims knew he was coming apart on his way to the brig, just like Tyrol. But there still wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He had words for Jean, sure. Questions. But those would have to wait.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Sorry, my adventures in the military had me...preoccupied and whatnot. Now I'm I'm injured and off-course, I can resume writing, hopefully.This is the final chapter of Trials, then I'll see if I can muster the ability to start another Gunny Sims series.

The field was beautiful, he had to admit. Being in space for so long had left Gunny Sims with a soft spot for ground under his feet. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Pine needles and freshly turned earth mixing intoxicatingly. It was bliss.

"Gunny, you just going to stand there, or are you gonna help us fill some sandbags?"

"Shut up, Hernandez. I'm trying to get used to my new home."

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"So, Firebase Alpha is good to go, Gunny?" asked the Colonel as he looked around at the HESCO bastions and concertina wire of the first field base on New Caprica. It had taken the marines two weeks to build.

"Is it ready, Gunny?"

"We're already running the training program for the former Resistance fighters, sir."

"Excellent, Gunny, excellent. How are the men holding up?"

Sims stared at his CO cockeyed.

"Sir, this is a great vacation for them. After being on ships for so long...it does them good, sir. They haven't had heavy weapons practice in forever."

"HA! I hope that's not all they approve of. "

"Fresh air is also appreciated, sir."

"Good, good. The President wants all civvies on the ground in a half-year."

Sims did a double take.

"All of them, sir?"

"Every stinking, whiny one of them."

"Sir...what about the orbital defense platforms?"

"Shot down in Quorum. We apparently have to spend the money on infrastructure and other bullshit."

"He's right...can't have the civvies living like soldiers, sir. We already don't have enough police on the ships."

The Colonel chuckled at the comment.

"Still...it'll do us good to have boots on the ground. First civvie ships start landing in two weeks."

BSG BSG BSG BSGBSG BSG BSG

_One Year After_

Gunny Sims strode the empty, barely-lit corridors of Battlestar Galactica. It seemed so empty, so vacant with a skeleton crew. The 352cond was a reserve company now, and he was one of a dozen full-time marines left. Sims was on rotation to the Battlestar for six months, leaving only occasionally to see Jean, who had slowly become his girlfriend for no reason he could really speculate on. He was nice enough, fun to be around, but there were inklings beneath the surface that all was not well with her. He made a point of talking to her the next time he was planetside. He was thinking about it when the klaxons began to sound.

"Action stations, action stations. Set condition one throughout the ship!"

The decks lurched, and he staggered. He dashed to his station, wondering what in the hell was going on. The world spun, the ship jumped, and he knew in the pit of his stomach: the Cylons had returned, and he had left Jean behind.


End file.
